Tag: gutpunch

Travis could hear the crunch of gravel out on the drive and could almost feel the rumbling throb of the huge engine as the 4X4 pickup lurched its way nearer. The sound made him shudder and tense up; it meant Brody was home. And that meant…

…well, there was no way to know what that meant tonight. Some nights, it meant fantastic sex. Brody was thirty, a good seven years older than Travis, and he was hotter than fuck. That hadn’t changed in the two years since they’d met—Brody’s job as a construction foreman kept his towering, six-foot-four frame fit and incredibly muscular. His dick was more than eight inches long and an inch and a half thick, and he knew how to use it.

But those nights were few and far between—and becoming fewer. Some nights, Brody was half-drunk (at a minimum) and in a foul mood. Those were bad nights. If Travis was lucky, he might get slapped around or a black eye. If he wasn’t lucky, Brody wanted to fuck. And that wasn’t fantastic sex, it was punishment sex. Brody wasn’t just a mean drunk, he was a mean fuck. On bad nights, Brody would fuck Travis like he wanted to hurt him.

Lately, there were a lot more bad nights. Lately, Brody was escalating the violence and inflicting more severe injuries. Lately, Travis was scared.

He wondered what would happen if he told Brody no. Tonight he was gonna find out.

It took all the nerve he could muster to remain sitting calmly on the couch as he heard the truck’s door slam. He didn’t love Brody—probably never had—but he was still overwhelmed with lust every time he looked at the older man. He simply hadn’t been able to bring himself to leave, but dammit, that was gonna change.

Completely left out of his calculations was the fact that he had nothing; Brody owned the aged mobile home they lived in and the plot of land it was on. And Brody’s job paid all the bills; Travis worked twenty-four hours a week as a clerk at the convenience store three miles up the road. Brody had to drive him there and pick him up.

It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. Travis wasn’t gonna let himself be bullied into abusive sex anymore, no matter how much of a stud Brody was. At least, that’s what he told himself as he pulled a cigarette from the pack on the battered and scarred coffee table in front of him and fumbled with his lighter.

The lithe young fag jumped when he heard the truck door slam. He didn’t know if he had the courage to follow through on his plans. He was fit but not overly developed. He stood a good half-foot shorter than Brody did and at a hundred and twenty pounds was outweighed by his brutal lover by a good sixty pounds, all of it muscles. His broad face and large blue eyes gave his face an innocence that was highlighted by his short, curly hair that shined like spun gold. Across the lower part of his face was the bare beginning of a beard of the same color. Just starting to grow in, the facial hair somehow made him look younger than his actual age.

Since he’d been off today, he hadn’t bothered to dress. He sported a pair of white cotton briefs that cradled his firm, rounded asscheeks and barely contained his decently-hung package; otherwise, his lean, taut body was bare, his smooth skin uncovered.

Of course, it wasn’t just that Brody outclassed him physically—if push came to shove, Travis had no doubt he could get away before anything really serious happened—but the redneck homo knew how attracted he was to the aggressive top. To put it bluntly, he just wasn’t sure he could give up Brody’s hot, hard body and his massive cock. After all, tonight might be a good night…

There was no mistaking the thumping of Brody’s boots on the front steps, but once the door was slammed open, Travis would have known his lover was in the room even had he been blind and deaf. Brody’s distinctive musk of sweat and pheromones filled the room. Tonight, it was blended with the sharp tang of alcohol.

Tonight wasn’t gonna be a good night.

“Go get me a clean shirt,” the hulking alpha demanded. “This one’s still damp.” Reaching down, he grabbed the hem of the dirty, sweat-soaked t-shirt and pulled it off over his head. It caught for the moment in the chain of thick gold links that hung around his neck. It took a further moment for Brody to free his shoulder-length black hair from the collar of the shirt.

When Travis returned from the bedroom with a clean t-shirt, Brody was rummaging in the fridge. “Long goddam day,” he grumbled, “Fuckin’ niggers and wetbacks don’t fuckin’ listen to a word I say.” Grabbing a beer, he stood up, closed the door of the fridge and popped the top of the beer can. He started guzzling it, the overhead fluorescent illuminating his awesome physique.

His broad hubcap pecs were covered with a forest of black fur that intensified as it ran down his hard ripped abs, the body hair almost seeming to flow in waves over the muscled abdomen only to disappear beneath the waistband of his distressed, faded jeans. Around his tight waist was a thick black leather belt, with a huge oval belt buckle made of elaborately wrought silver, with a large agate in the center. Below, the jeans were tucked into the wide shafts of Brody’s well-worn Red Wing construction boots, which were laced but left untied.

Travis laid the clean t-shit on the back of the couch, watching Brody gulp down the beer so eagerly some of it dripped from his chin, leaving white trails of foam in his chest hair. Finishing his brew, the alpha crumpled the can, belched loudly, and opened the fridge again.

“Why dintcha restock the fridge so I’d have some more cold ones?” he demanded.

If anger made Brody’s face intimidating, the way it darkened with rage now was positively terrifying. “You think yer gonna leave if you don’t get your way, ya little sack a’ shit?” he hissed, his tone low and dangerous. “You ain’t goin’ nowhere till I say you can go, you got that, boy?”

Travis gulped loudly but stood his ground. “I’m serious, Brody. You—you hurt me, man. You can fuck me all night long, but ya don’t have to be mean. You don’t have to hurt me.”

Brody stared Travis straight in the eyes. “But I like hurtin’ you, ya stupid little faggot. I like hearing you squeal. I like seein’ ya in pain. It gets me off, motherfucker.”

Drunk as Brody was, Travis was hit by the realization that he was speaking the truth. The youth wasn’t the sharpest tool in the shed so it took a moment for the full import of the alpha’s words to sink in, but once they did, he understood with stunning clarity that he needed to get out. Now.

“I’m goin’, Brody. I gotta. I gotta friend I can stay with, but I need to go…”

Brody flushed, rounding on Travis with lightning speed. “You gotta friend, huh? You been fuckin’ around on me, is that it? I ain’t good enough for ya now? You ain’t leavin’ me, faggot, till I get my money’s worth outta ya.”

“Brody, please, don’t make this any harder than it—”

Travis’s plea was interrupted by loud smack as Brody’s swift, vicious backhand made contact with the kid’s face. Travis staggered back, holding his hand up to his throbbing cheek, noting with dismay the sly, malicious grin on Brody’s face—and the swelling bulge in the top’s groin.

Brody hadn’t been kidding. He really did get off on hurting Travis.

The air was thick with menace. Travis, nearly nude as he was, couldn’t simply flee out the front door. He needed clothes, or he needed to call for help. Problem was, his clothes and his cell phone were in the bedroom—and Brody was between him and it. Still, he needed to chance it. Travis ducked down and shot to one side, trying to dodge Brody and get past him.

A violent impact to his flank told him he didn’t succeed. Brody had punched him in the side as he went past. “No ya don’t, cocksucker,” the alpha growled as Travis stumbled, groaning in pain.

Trying a new tack, Travis circled around into the living area, moving to the front of the couch as Brody slowly stalked after him, rubbing his swelling crotch. “Good thing yer undressed, boy—I’m in the mood to plow yer ass good and hard. Stand still, ya fucking twat so I can put my dick in ya—”

This was followed by a grunt of surprise as Travis launched himself over the sofa, stepping up onto the cushions, then leaping over the back. As the younger man dashed for the wall-mount phone in the kitchen, Brody tried to follow over the back of the couch. Travis was lucky; in his semi-drunk state, the aggressive muscleman misjudged how high the back of the sofa was and tumbled over it, slamming to the floor behind and momentarily knowing the wind out of himself.

It gave Travis enough time to reach the phone and dial 911. “Hello? Yes?” he cried into the mouthpiece, “Yes, police—it’s 1805 County Road 83 west—the trailer at the end of the drive—please, get here quick, he’s gonna hurt me—for fuck’s sake, get someone here—”

With a roar of rage Brody leapt at him. Travis hadn’t even realized the stud had regained his feet; with a screech of fear, the young punk jumped back and watched in stunned fear as the well-built construction worker grabbed the phone and wrenched it off the wall with the sheer power of his muscled arms. The metal plate and wiring to which the phone had been attached was ripped out of place, leaving a gaping hole in the drywall.

“You dumbass,” Brody hissed, “You’re gonna pay for that, in so many different ways…”

Travis, his never-robust courage now completely evaporated, began backing away, moving slowly down the hall to the rear of the trailer, where the back bedroom was. He had no plans and was moving instinctively, but once he got the open door of the spare bathroom, he dived into it and locked the door behind him.

“Let me in, Travis,” Brody growled through the door, “Or I really will break the door down. And I hafta do that, I’m gonna take the cost outta yer hide.”

Terrified by the sense of being caught in a trap, Travis whimpered. He glanced at the window, but it was a tiny opening for ventilation, far too small for him to fit through. If Travis actually came through the door, he couldn’t imagine what would happen to him…

That was when he heard the siren in the distance. Faint, but getting increasingly nearing—and thus louder—each passing second, the sound brought instant relief to the trembling young fag. And within seconds, Brody could hear them too.

Within a few seconds, Travis could hear the crunching of the tires on gravel and the banging of car doors, followed by a loud knock at the trailer door. “Police! Open up!” Still muttering beneath his breath, Brody went to let the cops in—he had no other choice. Cautiously unlocking the bathroom door, Travis finally came out.

Brody was talking to two cops—sheriff’s men. One looked like he was in his mid-forties, the other was about Brody’s age. Both were nodding as Brody tried to explain what was happening, but Travis knew if he didn’t say something, they’d leave—and he’d be in danger.

“Are you sure about that, son?” the older cop asked. “That’s a serious charge, after all.”

“See the mark on my face? Yeah, I’m sure. Now what are ya gonna do about it?”

The older cop sighed, his face clearly indicating his displeasure at whiny little faggots who increased his workload. “Do ya wanna file charges?” he asked wearily, already picturing the amount of extra paperwork that was going to be involved.

“Fuck yeah, I do,” Travis rejoined. He kept his eyes averted from the look of smoldering rage that Brody directed at him. If he could get the top arrested, he’d have at least the weekend free and clear to arrange for something else.

“Ok, let’s do this,” the older copy muttered, defeat dulling his voice as he unclipped the handcuffs from his belt and approached Brody. “Turn around, buddy. Hand behind your back.”

Brody complied, still glaring at Travis. “You’re takin’ me just on his say-so?” he asked, outraged.

The younger cop spoke up for the first time. “Gotta do it, mac. State law—gotta take in the aggressor in a DV case if the victim decides to file charges. That way, she—er, he—ain’t beaten into withdrawing the charges. After a cooling-down period, you’ll be allowed to post bail.”

“Son of a bitch!” Brody swore.

“C’mon, buddy, let’s get ya in the car,” the older cop said after securing the cuffs.

“What, just like this, half-dressed?” Brody demanded.

“Aw, it’s just to the county lockup,” the older cop said. “Tell ya what, if it makes ya feel better—Bates, pick up that shirt there on the couch on your way out. This guy can put it on when we get back to town.” With that, he aimed Brody at the door and left, leaving the younger cop to take Travis’s statement.

It didn’t take long for the young homo to recount the evening’s events. Travis practically gushed at the young, hard-bodied cop in his tight uniform. “Y’all saved my life, man—how’d y’all get here so quick? He asked.

“We were pickin’ up some coffee at the Kum N Buy up the road when we got the call,” the cop said coldly, his disgust at dealing with fags obvious. When he was done, the cop made a few follow-up notes and turned to leave. Once he reached the door, he looked back at Travis.

“Don’t forget,” the cop said. “You gotta come down in the mornin’ and sign the official charges. Plus, if ya want, you can file a restrainin’ order. Make it so he’s gotta stay at least five hundred yards from ya, legally. I always think they’re more trouble than they’re worth, but the law says I gotta advise ya about it.”

Leaving Travis pondering on the possibilities of a restraining order, the cop descended the steps that lead to the front door of the trailer. He got to the car just as his partner finished getting Brody settled into the back seat and closed the door on him.

“I tell ya, whole country’s gettin’ too damn liberal,” he grumbled as the younger man came up. “Way I see it, if a man works a long, hard day, he’s gotta right to expect things to be a certain way at home and there ain’t nothin’ wrong with knockin’ a little sense into the bitch if she can’t keep the place right. Not like I give a shit what these two fags were doin’ to each other, but it’s the principle of the thing, ya know?”

“Yeah, I hear ya,” the younger cop grinned. “Had to tell that little cocksucker about gettin’ a restrainin’ order. Fuckin’ makes me sick. That little buttfuck back in the trailer could do with a good beatin’, if ya ask me. C’mon, let’s go—I gotta fine piece of ass waitin’ for me when I get off shift.”

They climbed into the front seat of the car and headed out to the county road. Travis watched them go out of the window, then retrieved his cell phone. “Hey, Eric? Yeah, man, I need a favor. Can you give me a lift into town and back tomorrow mornin’? Yeah, I know it’s short notice, but I gotta get to the police station. Naw, nothin’ bad—I’ll tell ya about it when you get here. Just text me when yer on the way. Thanks, man.”

At eight-thirty on a Friday evening, the Plaza Bar & Grill was starting to fill up. Not as busy as it would be later in the evening, there was still a good throng of locals getting tanked and loading up on burgers and the grill’s specialty—huge baskets of fries, cooked in peanut oil. It was actually a crowded, dirty dive housed in what had once been a hardware store; it took its absurdly grandiose name from the fact that it was on the town square, facing the courthouse.

It was also within walking distance of the police station, which was how Brody got there without his truck.

Once he’d gotten booked, he called his boss, who showed up the next morning to post bail; he’d agreed to advance the money out of Brody’s pay. It took several hours for the bond to go through and even longer for the police clerk to process it, since he was the only full-time staff the department bothered to hire. As a result, Brody wasn’t actually let out until somewhere around four that afternoon.

That was when he learned that Travis had not only filed charges against him, he’d also applied for—and got, with surprising speed—a restraining order. Reading the paper handed to him at the discharge desk, Brody couldn’t go back to the trailer.

That when he walked over to the bar and started drinking. And kept it up all evening.

Brody was a hard drinker—it took a lot to get him sloppy drunk, and he wasn’t anywhere near that point. But as the sun set and the lights came on in the bar, the buff, hardbodied redneck sat and stared at the cigarette burns and the circular marks of moisture where his numerous bottle of beer had been placed, and he simmered.

That goddam little cocksucker. Think he could kick Brody outta his own property? He’d see about that.

Over the past couple of years, Brody had experienced certain…desires. His imagination had bubbled with things he’s wanted to do to Travis, things that would cause a lot of trouble, but would be so fuckin’ hot…

They all came back to him now, but this time was different. The alcohol had lowered his inhibitions, but it was more than that. Do them was right. It was fitting.

“Ya need a lift? Ol’ Earle over there is about to head out, he lives out past yer place, right?”

Brody thought for a moment. “Yeah, he does. I can get him to drop me at the foot of the drive. That way he won’t hear me comin’.”

“Who won’t hear ya comin’?”

Brody shot her another look, his slightly bloodshot eyes glittering with malignity. “No one, darlin’. Just a bitch who’s gonna learn a major lesson the hard way.”

Travis signed off on his online chat with Eric. Usually they communicated via texts, which Travis immediately erased so Brody couldn’t see them. With Brody in jail, though, Travis felt free to sit at the desk in the spare bedroom and use the computer.

He’d made arrangements to meet Eric at The Well, a small dive on the west side of Main Street near the train tracks with a clientele split equally between a small group of gays and a group of shiftless white trash that came simply because it was the closet bar to their squalid homes. Wilton, the guy who lived on the next plot of land east, was a regular every Friday and Saturday night. Travis never could figure out why; he wasn’t gay and the Plaza was actually closer.

Not that it mattered—the point was that Wilton was there by midnight like clockwork, so all Travis had to do was walk down the drive to the road and hitch a ride with Wilton when he came by. He’d done it several times before.

Travis slumped back casually in the desk chair, savoring his sense of freedom. He’d already dressed to go out, his black t-shirt tucked into a new and very tight pair of jeans with boot-cut cuffs to display his dark-gray ropers. The boots weren’t new, but he considered them dress wear and took as good care of them as anything else that captured his shallow fancy.

Travis’s indolent reverie was interrupted by a faint rattling sound from the living room. He stood up and stretched, the deep blue denim of his jeans following the contour of his perfectly-rounded asscheeks like a second skin. He grabbed his denim jacket from the back of the chair and, slipping it on, went to investigate.

The faint rattling had a familiar sound, but Travis couldn’t place it and it had ceased before he reached the living room. Looking around, he couldn’t detect anything out of place. He turned to go back when it started again behind him—it was at the front door.

He just had time to reach into his pocket and dig out his phone—which took a moment since his jeans were so tight—when he realized with horror that he knew exactly what that sound was.

It was a key in the lock. And the only other person with a key to the trailer was Brody.

“No…” he whispered, his face ashen as he whirled to see the door burst open and Brody’s hulking, powerful form filling the doorway, rage emanating from the muscled alpha in almost visible waves.

He raised his hand so Travis could see the piece of paper crushed in his clenched fist. “You fucked up, bitch,” he hissed, “You fucked up so bad…”

With a womanish screech, Travis pawed at his phone, frantically trying to dial 911. He managed to get a 9 and a 1 input before Brody bore down on him. The slim young fag resorted to his usual maneuver of diving over the couch, but he dropped his phone when he did. As Travis sprinted for the master bedroom, Brody ground the heel of his Red Wing workboot into the phone, shattering the screen.

Then he turned and head towards the master bedroom. His thick heavy footfalls were those of a hunter relentlessly stalking his prey.

The door to the bedroom wasn’t completely closed, but in his amped-up state of terror, Travis had managed to shove the dresser so that it partially blocked it. As a desperate attempt to buy some time, it failed abjectly. Brody shoved the furniture aside with ease, entering the room to find Travis popping the screen out of the bedroom window and trying to dive out headfirst.

Brody took two giant strides across the room, grabbed the young punk’s ankle and yanked him back into the room. Stumbling backwards against the bed, Travis fell to his knees involuntarily. Overcoming an obvious reluctance, he turned his large blue eyes up to Brody’s face, his pale face wincing at the sheer rage he could see there.

“B-Brody…” he whispered, “You-you weren’t sp-sp s’posed to b-be…”

“I wasn’t s’posed to be outta jail yet, huh?” the hulking redneck alpha growled. “An’ you had plans to keep me out, yeah?” He brandished the paper still clutched in his hand; despite the way it had been wrinkled in his fist, it was still obvious that he was holding the restraining order.

Suddenly Brody’s anger seemed to implode from a roaring, red-hot rage into a quiet, focused point of white-hot fury. “Oh,” he said quietly and calmly, “You were gonna leave, were ya? That’ll all? Nothing else?”

“No…no…” Travis whispered, partially in agreement with Brody’s comment and partially in an instinctive, almost totem attempt to ward off the danger that was literally palpable. He’d never seen this cold, hard anger in Brody before. He didn’t know what it meant—but he damn well knew it wasn’t good.

“Get up,” Brody demanded brusquely. “Get up or I’ll get ya up.”

“Pl-please, Brody,” Travis began but was unable to complete his plea before the powerful top grabbed a handful of the kid’s golden curls and pulled upwards, his bicep bulging with inexorable force as Travis squalled in pain and came up off his knees, knowing his scalp would be torn off if he didn’t.

Travis had time to notice how the hem of the short sleeve on Brody’s white t-shirt was drawn taut around the circumference of his massive bicep as the abusive top pulled his arm back. It mesmerized him to the point he almost didn’t notice the arm shoot forward again; he certainly never had time to try to block the vicious gutpunch that hit him like the kick of a horse. The blow was so violent Travis was jerked back hard enough to pull his head free of Brody’s grip, at the painful cost of a handful of hair being ripped out.

Travis kicked as he fell, his ropers making contact with Brody’s legs—not hard enough to cause any pain, but in combination with the sudden shift in his weight once he was no longer holding Travis, the alpha staged backwards a few steps to regain his balance. Unable to breathe, Travis nonetheless found himself doing an astonishingly stuntman-like tuck and roll across the bed. Hitting the floor on the other side, he hurled himself around a corner into the master bathroom, slamming and locking the door behind him.

Putting up a hand to brace himself against the wall, Brody dropped the restraining order; the crumpled piece of paper floated to the floor like a leaf. Watching it, the muscle-bound hick felt the red flush of anger rising in his face again. He turned towards the bathroom door, an expression of grim determination coalescing on his feature.

The little fuck had to learn. Brody knew he was hot; he knew he could stick his dick in anything he wanted. This lazy little homo leech brought nothing to the table; it needed to learn its place in the scheme of things. And its place in Brody’s scheme had hit rock-fuckin’-bottom.

He started slowly, with an almost casual knock at the bathroom door. “Travis?” he called gently. “C’mon out, man, I wanna talk.”

The leech in question was huddled on the bathroom floor, his knees drawn up to his chest and his arms clasped around them. Tears were running down his face and despite the oppressive heat in the small room and his sweatiness from his recent acrobatics, Travis pulled the denim jacket tighter around his shoulders. His abdomen was still throbbing from the punch and he’d just managed to get his breath back.

“B-brody?” he quavered, “Just—just let m-me go, dude. Huh? Ok? Can I just go?” He didn’t know what to make of this conciliatory tone, but he knew it’d be a very bad idea to go out there with Brody just outside the door.

“You filed this order,” Brody’s voice came silkily from beyond the thin, hollow-core door. “We need to talk about it. C’mon, man, open up the door.”

“Ya know what?” Brody snapped, the softness in his voice replaced with a tone that seethed unmistakably with cold, hard rage, “I’m sick of fuckin’ with yer dumb ass, you worthless little faggot.”

There was a loud crunching sound and Travis saw to his horror that Brody had put his steel-toed construction boot through the door, smashing open a large hole in the center with a single kick. The leg was withdrawn and was instantly replaced with Brody’s face. The long-haired stud had the countenance of a god, but tonight he looked like the god of hell as he grinned at the terrified punk.

“Heeere’s Brody!” he shrieked with insane glee. The remains of the hollow-core door were no obstacle to the powerful white-trash sadist; he tore the pieces out with his bare hands, the screws coming out of the thin wood fascia as easily as if they’d been screwed into butter. In less than five seconds, Travis was face-to-face with the one person he’d hoped he’d never see again.

That was bad—very bad. Cowering at the base of the toilet, the lean, lithe youth saw death in Brody’s eyes. Travis screamed and pissed himself in terror, the hot wet warmth spreading over the crotch of his tight jeans.

The hard-bodied alpha chuckled malignantly. “You scared, asswipe? You should be. Time for you to learn a lesson I should taught ya a long time ago—and learnin’ it’s gonna hurt bad, bro. It’s gonna hurt so fuckin’ bad.”

With the feral grace of a tiger attacking prey, Brody lunged at Travis. In a single, lightning-fast maneuver, he grabbed the terrified punk by the throat, whirled around, and flung him back through the open doorway into the bedroom. Travis hit the ground on his back just short of the far wall, the impact driving his breath out and stunning him but not knocking him out.

As he shuddered on the floor in shocked pain, gasping for air like a dying fish, Travis could only watch helplessly as Brody strode out of the bathroom with a calm that belied his boiling rage. The quivering homo stared as the hard-bodied stud towered over him.

His tight jeans tucked carelessly into his laced but untied construction boots, his wide leather belt with the huge metal belt buckle fastened just above the massive bulge in his crotch, his ripped abs and massive chest, emphasized by his too-small white cotton t-shit that was stretched so tightly across his broad pecs that his large firm nipples seemed about to tear through the fabric, above all his hard, almost arrogant face with two days’ worth of scruff darkening the cheeks and chin—even in his pain and fear, Travis was still mesmerized by Brody’s sheer masculinity. The head mix of pheromones emitted in the alpha’s sweat added to the pansy’s confusing mix of lust and terror. He wanted Brody so bad—no, that wasn’t right; he wanted to get away from Brody so bad…

In any event, he didn’t have a choice. Before he could recover, the muscle-bound top bent down and clamped his hand around Travis’s throat again with a brutal vise grip. Hoisting the writhing homo into the air, this time the vindictive sadist let the boy dangle, gagging and choking.

Travis’s mind was engulfed in terror like a solid sheet of flame. He couldn’t breathe at all. No matter how hard he kicked, his piss-filled ropers were flailing uselessly inches off the floor. And Brody—Brody was more pissed than Travis had even seen him. Brody was gonna hurt him worse than he ever had before.

Travis’s panic went nuclear when he realized it wasn’t the kinda hurt he’d get over—it wasn’t the kinda hurt he’d survive. The rational part of his mind slipped away and he became a feral animal, scratching and clawing in his desperation to survive. He realized—without any conscious thought involved—that he wasn’t making any headway clutching at the incredibly powerful hand Brody had clamped around his throat.

With nothing else to cling to, Travis began flailing wildly, his hands snatching at anything within reach. The first thing he came into contact with was the collar of Brody’s t-shirt. With a mighty (and completely instinctive) jerk, the thrashing youth tore the collar, yanking back until the thin cotton shirt was in shreds.

“You fuckin’ asswipe!” Brody barked, “Goddam shirt is new!”

Travis never saw the blow the hardbodied top aimed at his face; he only felt a phenomenal blast of pain and sank instantly into darkness.

Travis’s ascent back to consciousness was marked by a distinct ache that seemed generalized at first, throbbing throughout his body, but finally localized on his left eye. He tried to open it, but it was swollen and he could only manage to peer out of a blurry slit. There was nothing wrong with his right eye, though. It popped open to see Brody looming over him.

He felt like he’d been out for hours, but it had been less than fifteen minutes. In that time, Brody had managed to strip him nude and lay him out crossways across the bed. Groaning, the twink raised his head, his shaggy blond hair glinting like gold under the bare overhead light. Tenderly clutching his blackened eye, Travis watch Brody out of his good one as the stud tore the remains of the t-shirt off his back and tossed them to the floor. His huge furry chest and washboard abs exposed, the alpha finally deigned to look down and notice the boy.

“Good, yer awake,” Brody said, almost conversationally. “I was jist wonderin’ how to wake yer stupid ass up. See, ya can’t learn if yer asleep—an’ it’d be jist like a dumbass motherfucker like you to sleep through the most important lesson of yer life.”

Brody reached down and unzipped his fly. Reaching in, he extracted his tackle like he was hauling a bucket up out of a well. Travis was already familiar with the top’s huge shaft, but there was something sinister about how hard the massive cock already was. The slut was so focused on the pulsating rod of manmeat that it took him a moment to notice that Brody had undone his belt buckle and was slowly sliding the belt out from around his tight waist.

Travis knew he was trapped. There was no way out; his only hope was to try to appeal to Brody, hoping for some mercy of perhaps memory of affection.

The moment he said it, the flash in Brody’s eye told his he could have phrased it better. “Gonna be sorry for?” the vicious redneck hissed, “Is that some kinda threat, boy? You think you can threaten me, you sorry-ass little cumsucker? Here’s a threat for ya, faggot!”

Brody doubled his belt over and held it at the bend, leaving both ends—including the one with the huge metal buckle—free. Travis saw him swing but didn’t even have time to wince as Brody brought the thick leather straps down across the tender flesh of the kid’s smooth, flat belly. The loose end of the belt stuck the skin with a loud slap, leaving a wide red weal. The buckle, on the other hand, slammed down violently and left a bruise nearly the size of a palm print.

Both hurt like all fuck. Travis screamed and Brody grinned cheerfully.

“That got yer attention, huh? That got yer mind off suckin’ dude’s dicks? Yeah? Good, cunt, cause there’s a lot more where that came from. I’m gonna teach ya the same way I saw my pappy break a horse—with pain. Only thing a dumb animal like you understands is pain, boy. So saddle up, motherfucker, cause it’s time to rodeo!”

Through his tears, the sobbing youth looked up at Brody. The muscled stud had turned away for a moment; Travis heard the door latch, then a click. Brody had closed and locked the bedroom door. He returned and leaned over the writhing homo, his head momentarily eclipsing the overhead light, giving his black, shoulder-length hair a glowing aura as an arrogant, cocky grin crossed his unshaven face.

“Ain’t no way out, boy. See, that’s what ya gotta learn—you ain’t goin’ nowhere till I’m done with yer ass. Ya feelin’ me, son? Ya catchin’ what I’m pitchin’ at ya? Naw, I don’t think you are. Like I said, it takes pain for a dumbass motherfucker like you to learn a damn thing.”

Travis shrank back as Brody brandished the belt again, raising it up over his shoulder. Throwing up his hands, Travis had time to shout, “Please, no!” before Brody swung. It turned out putting up his hands to block the blow was an extremely bad idea; while the belt lashed his right arm painfully, the buckle struck his left hand squarely, snapping all but Travis’s index finger and thumb.

The agony was as sudden and unexpected as it was searing. Travis immediately rolled onto his side and curled into a fetal position, cradling his wounded hand.

“Oh no you don’t,” Brody growled. Grabbing Travis by the shoulder, he rolled the kid onto his back again. The weeping punk saw with horror that the alpha’s huge cock was dripping precum. Raising his eyes slowly from the erect, straining rod, Travis scanned Brody’s furry abs and the wiry mass of body hair that spread over his chest, the large dark nipples jutting from the swelling pecs like volcanic peaks above a dark forest.

Above that, the look in Brody’s handsome, masculine face told Travis what he already knew but was afraid to admit to himself—inflicting pain was getting Brody aroused. The unmistakable glint of lust in his eye, normally a turn-on on its own, was transformed in something terrible and disturbing when it was combined by the grimace of contempt and hatred that twisted Brody’s face.

And that was when it finally sank in for Travis. For a brief moment, lucidity cut through the pulsing agony in his hand and the sharp ache radiating from the bruise on his belly, and he understood the symbolism of Brody closing and locking the bedroom door.

It was because he was gonna die in here tonight.

“Oh god, no,” he protested, but fear had frozen his voice into a barely-audible croak. “No, Brody—for fuck’s sake, don’t…”

Some perverse corner of Travis’s mind sealed his lips, not wanting to give Brody the satisfaction—not that it mattered. With a convulsive grunt, the muscled top swung the belt again, the edge of the oversized buckle slashing a long gash across the kid’s smooth chest. This time, though, Travis didn’t get the chance to react to the cold, sharp pain of torn flesh before the belt struck him again. And again.

Brody was working himself into a frenzy, his face contorted with hatred and rage as he lashed the slim young boy with the leather belt. Each agonizing blow that landed forced a scream from Travis; suddenly, the blows were landing too fast for him to separate them. It was like he was in a hail of knives—he simply couldn’t tell where the welts from the belt were forming or if the buckle had struck him on the leg or on the elbow. All he knew was that he was in an unholy grip of pain that clutched his entire body remorselessly.

At one point, Travis was aware of a single blow of the buckle—it hit his right knee edge-on, shattering the kneecap. That sensation tore right through him, a flash of agony that would have seared his soul had the shallow youth possessed one.

The brutal whipping lasted for almost twenty minutes before Brody, sweating and panting with exertion, tossed the belt to one side. Travis kept screaming, his cries deafening—to himself. In reality, his voice had cracked five minutes earlier and all that was coming out of his gaping mouth now was a hoarse gasping sound. He was rolling about and jerking on the bed as if he was still being whipped—an involuntary reaction to the pain. His smooth skin was no longer unblemished; barely an inch was visible that was not marked with the brutal violence he’d just suffered.

Before Travis could process the words that had been spoken to him, Brody had climbed on top of him and forcibly spread his legs apart. His pain- and fear-stunned mind moved slowly; it wasn’t until cue-ball-sized head of the muscled alpha’s dick pressing against his sphincter that Travis realized his murderous lover was treating him to one last fuck.

The young fag had worshipped Brody’s monstrously huge cock and had loved the sensation of being filled with manmeat—it had hurt, but it had hurt so good. But Brody had always gone in slowly, and with lots of lube. This time it was different. This time it hurt bad.

Wrapping his large hands around Travis’s smooth thighs, Brody rammed his shaft deep into Travis’s rectum, his oozing precum the only lube. Despite the nightmarish level of agony wracking the punk’s lean body, the sudden, searing pain of having his sphincter literally torn open took Travis’s breath away. He could only lie still, his body rigid and trembling, his eyes, wide and circled with gray rings of shock, riveted on the figure of Brody.

The hardbodied redneck grinned. He brushed a lock of his long hair out of his face; his bulked-out torso glistened with a slight sheen of sweat under the overhead bulb. The beating had been a good workout; Brody’s muscles tingled and he felt energized. His big throbbing cock was buried balls-deep into boymeat—the sadist was pumped and primed, ready for a good time.

Still overwhelmed by the pain in his rectum, Travis’s jaw had clenched closed tightly, forcing him to breathe loudly and deeply through his nose. His close proximity to Brody’s sweaty, masculine body meant that the unfortunate youth was more or less huffing the overabundance of pheromones that were being emitted in the musky tang of Brody’s mansweat.

The impact of the adrenaline and testosterone on the always-horny homo was as involuntary as it was immediate—Travis’s own six-and-a-half inch dick began to stiffen and rise above the kid’s flat, badly-bruised belly. He was in too much pain to notice it at the moment…

Brody noticed it.

“Fuckin’ faggot,” he snarled. “All I gotta do is shove my cock into ya and yer homo ass gets all horny—even though I toldja yer gonna die tonight. Ya like that idea, huh? I shoulda offed ya a long time ago. In fact—”

Before Travis could blink, Brody’s arms had darted forward and clamped around the boy’s throat. As the buff top leaned over, the weight of his bulked-out body pressing Travis down into the mattress, he began to squeeze, his grip intensifying slowly but inexorably, as he cocked his thumbs and pressed them remorselessly into the kid’s larynx.

“—every time I came in yer worn-out asshole, it was cause I was fantasizin’ about snuffin’ ya, you useless pansy. Remember Tuesday night? I was thinkin’ about huntin’ you through the woods like prey, seein’ the terror on yer stupid fag face when I finally blocked yer path and blew ya away with my shotgun. But you wouldn’t suffer enough—I’d want ya still alive while I gutted ya like a deer…”

Travis croaked loudly, his hands gripping Brody’s wrists but the broken fingers on his left hand flopped limply, utterly powerless to move the top’s hands a fraction of an inch from his compressed throat. His air was completely cut off. This couldn’t be happening yet, he thought; knowing he was going to die, he still refused to recognize the imminence of death.

“Remember how good I fucked ya on your birthday?” the alpha whispered vindictively to the choking youth, “You said it was the best fuck you’d ever had. I was dreamin’ about cuttin’ yer throat and fuckin’ ya as you bled out and died. That get ya off, you sick fucker? Yeah?”

Travis shook his head frantically, as much in denial of the entire situation as in denial of Brody’s words. His face was starting to swell and darken and the crushing pain in his throat was a strong new sensation in the kid’s overpowering wave of suffering. But it wasn’t alone—there was a pounding, too, a hot, burning pounding in his head and his chest…

“I even planned out how to dump yer body, fuckwad,” Brody chuckled cruelly at his dying bitch. “I’m just gonna drive ya out and dump ya in the swamp. By the time yer corpse floats up outta the muck, it’ll be so bloated and rotten, ain’t no one gonna know who you are. If anyone finds it in the first place. Ain’t no one gonna be lookin’—I’m gonna tell ‘em you ran off with some rich dude who was passin’ through. Everyone knows what a lazy whore ya are—and no one’s gonna care.”

Travis could still hear Brody speak, but the words seemed to have an odd echo effect inside his head. It was cloudy in there and it was only with difficulty that the choking faggot could focus his attention. He was still lucid enough to realize that pulling at Brody’s wrists wasn’t helping and tried clawing at the alpha’s fingers instead. His entire body seemed to be pulsing with pain; some part of him wondered how he could still be conscious while suffering such agony—and why his cock was so strainingly erect it hurt as well…

When Brody spoke again, Travis absorbed the words. They seemed to melt into the relentless, overwhelming pounding in his head and his chest; the rapid jackhammering of his pulse that beat out the last few moments of his wasted life in double-time…

Brody could feel his hot manseed seething in his balls; he knew he was gonna erupt into a boiling geyser of sperm at any moment. Even now, trembling on the edge of orgasm, he was so pissed at the worthless little fairy he was bangin’ that he didn’t want the cunt to enjoy his hot manload.

Brody’s hands tightened, his fists clenching closed in his rage. His thumbs pressed forward inexorably, shoving Travis’s larynx out of place. As the cartilage of his voice box reached the point of ultimate stress, the lithe young faggot kicked and flailed frantically, the terror of knowing that he was gonna die if he couldn’t stop the powerful sadist overriding the nightmarish agony he experienced every time he bent his shattered knee.

And he couldn’t. He simply wasn’t strong enough to prevent the alpha’s muscles from clamping down on him and ending his life. The point was driven home painfully as Brody crushed his larynx, the fragile cartilage construction shattering loudly into mangled gristle.

Travis’s swelling, blackening face assumed a horror-stricken expression, but the kid’s features were so bloated and congested with asphyxia that it was hard to tell the difference. The grotesque, excruciating agony in his throat was just the latest in a long line of horrific sensations that were wreaking havoc on his nervous system. The pounding in his chest was so intense the dying homo was sure his body was pulsing visibly in the same tempo. Deep inside, he was still painfully aware of how full of manmeat his guts were; the horny faggot corner of his mind that still kept track of such things held no memory of Brody’s cock being so thick or buried so far inside him.

And as some part of him screamed inwardly at his missed chance to flee, another part acknowledged that he’d have missed this insanely intense fuck—and that part seemed to be the one in control of his cock as it swelled and oozed, its tender flesh viciously abraded by Brody’s rough, wiry belly fur as the swollen member slid between the writhing, intertwined bodies.

Things were fading for Travis, and growing cold. Was the heat on? He couldn’t remember. All he could remember was that there was pain beyond the icy chill, pain and cock. He was full. Brody had filled him with manmeat. Beyond that, the pounding in his head was too much; it was like he was being beaten by a prizefighter…why? What—his dick, his ass, his entire lean smooth body—it had given him such pleasure; now there was nothing but pain everywhere…

The hardbodied top gave the dying youth one last squeeze, feeling with profound satisfaction the cracking sensation as he crushed Travis’s trachea into a bloody pulp, permanently sealing off the punk’s airway. In the shock of mortal pain, Travis literally lost his mind; the animalistic mid-brain took over and Brody found himself dealing with a wild, clawing beast that beat at his chest and ripped his chest hairs unconsciously. Not that that got any pity from Brody; having his chest fur pulled out hurt. With a loud grunt, he drove two roundhouse punches straight into Travis’s face, breaking the fag’s nose with a pulpy sound.

“Ain’t you dead yet?” Brody snapped. “Fuck, I ain’t gonna need yer worthless ass once I use it as a cumrag. Fuckin’ die, motherfucker!” He placed his right palm on Travis’s chin, feeling the wispy golden curls of the homo’s blond facial hair. At the same moment, Travis’s hands were fondling Brody’s harsh scruff, the dying boy’s fingers–the unbroken ones–involuntarily caressing the rough, steel-wool-like growth covering the alpha’s hard, masculine cheeks and strong chin.

Brody shoved. With a loud cracking sound, Travis’s skull was forcibly separated from his spine, the thick spinal cord shearing apart at the second cervical vertebra with instant, violent, and traumatic impact.

As Brody recalled it later, it was like Travis suddenly developed a moist, pulsing suction in his ass, solely devoted to swallowing the vast load of sperm that the top had built up in his balls.

The dying faggot wrapped his arms and legs around his killer and squeezed—everything. His limbs, his chest, his rectum; it all contracted as a searing bolt of agony swept like lightning through Travis’s central nervous system.

At literally the same moment his brain was shorting out and dying, the battered and abused youth shot a stream of hot semen from his hyper-stimulated scrotum. Brody grunted and screamed “Fuck!” repeatedly as Travis’s lean form writhed and jerked under his weight, milking his sensitive, engorged shaft. For Travis, the world ended in a searing blast of agony and cum.

As the dead kid kept pumping out his death load, reflexively smearing and matting Brody’s chest fur with pearly white boyspunk, the muscled alpha hosed the cunt’s guts with his boiling wad. It took a moment for Brody to regain control, but when he did, he found himself staring down into Travis’s face. The young slut’s bulging, half-lidded eyes had a thousand-yard stare and thick, white, foamy drool trickled down his chin, soaking the golden curls. He head was bent backwards at a grotesque angle.

Brody slowly withdrew his throbbing tool, pulling against the suction that somehow remained in the corpse’s rectum. With a loud sucking sound, his massive rod came free, swaying and bobbing, dribbling pearly drops of spunk on Travis’s smooth, flaccid thighs. Standing up, the cum-covered alpha passed his hand across his brow to keep sweat from trickling in his eyes and admired the scene.

Travis had learned a lesson he damn sure wouldn’t forget—the little fuck wasn’t ever forget anything ever again. His smooth lean body shuddered in its death throes, his bare toes curling and uncurling as random nerves fired along the shredded remains of his spinal column. A thick, glutinous wad of semen was slowly seeping from his still semi-erect dick.

After cleaning himself up a little—washing the sweat and cum off his torso and his dick, then stuffing the latter back into his tight, worn jeans—the buff alpha took some time to take what was left of the ruined bathroom door off its hinges. He’d get a new door tomorrow. After dumping the splintered pieces of wood into the bed of his truck, Brody turned back to the trailer. He’d finished clearing away the door, but he hadn’t finished taking out the trash yet.

Striding back into the bedroom, he leaned over the bed and picked up Travis’s body. The dead kid was still quivering and since Brody hadn’t bothered to clean the corpse, he suddenly found himself covered with the homo’s cum again.

Well fuck that, he thought and decided not to bother with putting on the shirt; he was dumping garbage and would need a shower once he was done anyway.

The hulking, muscled redneck threw the dead boy over his shoulder, Travis’s head and hands hanging down Brody’s back. As he left the trailer, the alpha’s boots sounded thick and heavy on the wooden steps and the extra weight he was carrying made the gravel crunch loudly under his heels. Jerking his shoulder, he tossed Travis into the bed of his pickup; the corpse landed face-up with a thick, meaty thump.

Brody hopped into the cab and threw the truck into gear. Twenty minutes later, he was pulling off the county road onto a trail that would have been impossible to see if he hadn’t already known where it was. The rutted mud track he was following put his 4X4 through a workout, but eventually he reached the edge of swamp, pulling over beside a large pool of sickly water, dotted with tree stumps and covered with slimy green algae.

Climbing out of the driver’s seat, Brody walked around to the rear, opened the tailgate, and dragged Travis out by the feet, letting him fall to the ground like a sack of potatoes. Standing over him, Brody looked down at the murdered corpse of his lover of two years.

“Y’know, fuckwad,” Brody mused speculatively, “That fuck was the best one yet. Ever. I shoulda done that to ya the first day I met ya…”

His Redwing construction boots sank deep into the soft ground as he dragged the faggot’s body to the water and rolled it in, watching bubbles rise up under the green film on the surface. The he headed back to the truck.

On his way back to the trailer, Brody kept the windows down; it was a chilly night, but he was warm from exertion and the cool breeze across his chest kept his nipples achingly erect. His mind was still running on the last thing he’d said. If he’d offed Travis right away, he’d have gotten some great sex—and he wouldn’t have had to deal with the whiney little bitch for two years.

That was it, man. That was how to do it. Work ‘em out, use ‘em up and get rid of ‘em before they start to rot. Fuck yeah.

Brody had a sudden sensation that he had experienced a major sexual revelation. He knew now what he wanted to do, what would get him off, and get him off right. He just needed a victim.

Wondering if there was anything on the computer back home that would lead him to the faggot cunt that have been helping his bitch try to run away, Brody grinned and turned on the radio. His dick was getting hard again…

Toby glanced down at Mike’s thick, swollen cock. Turning his long-lashed, emerald green eyes back to Mike’s face, he grinned happily, then lowered his head and began to suck the oozing shaft.

“Fuck,” Mike moaned, running his hands over Toby’s smooth, firm body. He clutched the cocksucker’s arms, feeling the biceps moving under the sleeve of tattoos decorating both arms. One of the things that had attracted Mike to Toby when they met at the gym was the latter’s skater punk look. Not that Toby wasn’t as into working out as Mike; but Mike’s was a more conventional buff fag attractiveness.

If it wasn’t love, it had been immediate lust at first sight for both. Within a month, they’d moved in together; that had been more than nine months ago—and the sex was still as hot as ever.

Mike grunted, his sweat-streaked face twisting into a grimace. “Fuckin’-A, dude, I’m gonna unload in yer mouth,” he panted and Toby, anxious for that hot spurt down his throat, redoubled his efforts.

Neither one of them had any idea they were being watched.

They’d left the blinds open; no reason they shouldn’t have—the window looked out onto a small yard surrounded by a privacy fence. Powerful as he was, Adam had been able to vault himself over the fence and land silently on the inside. Now he crouched outside the window, watching, his muscled body inflamed with desire for the young well-built bodies of the twinks and overwhelming disgust for the pathetic homos having sex in front of him.

Mike and Toby still had a daily routine at the gym, but they varied the times they went. Unluckily for them, two weeks ago, they’d been spotted there by Adam. He’d had an idea, a desire, a need—but he also needed a couple to help him fulfill it, and he felt like he’d just discovered the perfect pair.

The idea of pollution had been building in the back of his warped mind. He’d already accepted that fucking a living fag would tarnish him as a homo himself; he needed to purify the meat by snuffing it first.

Recently, though, he’d worked out his necro philosophy in more detail and decided that there were levels of purity. The meat that suffered the most was the most pure; suffering purged the faggot taint out of whatever boycunt he fucked.

That being said, how could he know how pure the meat was unless he offed it himself? Restlessly, his mind turned back to all the corpses he’d plowed that he hadn’t killed. There was no way to know how much they’d suffered—well, except for that last one, the one in the pool locker room; he’d witnessed that snuff and knew he had nothing to fear there.

And that was when he’d had the idea. It rose up in him, a great urge that had to be satisfied if he was going to feel cleansed again.

He needed to recreate those kills—but this time, he’d be the killer. That was the only was he could purge himself of the infection of faggotry. And this time, he’d make goddam sure the meat suffered.

His first necro fuck had been the two dudes in the condo; the day after coming to this conclusion, Adam had been on the hunt for a couple of pansies that he could snuff simultaneously. And the day after that, while finishing up some squats at the gym, his eyes lighted on Mike and Toby, the former doing some bench presses and the latter spotting him.

At one point, Mike had set the barbell back on the rests and, glancing around to see if anyone was looking, reached his hand up the leg of Toby’s shorts and fondled the smaller dude’s cock for a moment. Despite his careful scoping, Mike never caught sight of Adam’s eagle-eye stare; from then on, he and Toby were marked for death.

They appeared to be about the same age—Mike was twenty-three and Toby twenty-one—but Mike was the larger and better-built of the two, by quite bit. At six-foot-one and a hundred and sixty pounds, he certainly wouldn’t have been Adam’s equal in any physical contest, but he was still muscular enough to turn some heads. His short strawberry-blond hair capped a broad, good-natured face which lodged a pair of deep, emotive brown eyes, a short straight nose, smooth cheeks and full, red lips.

Toby was more of a twink at 5-foot-nine and just over a hundred and forty. His long brown hair was straight and shoulder-length; beneath his green eyes and slightly humped nose (evidence of a skateboard mishap that had broken it), he sported a soul patch of thick brown fur on his chin.

After that, Adam started tracking them, stalking the two fags as his prey. He managed to catch them in the locker room a couple of times, giving him the chance to get a better look at the meat he wanted to fuck. The skater punk maintained him image; the writhing patterns and designs of both tattooed arms continuing over his shoulders and down to the tops of his pecs, leaving his small brown nipples free. There was a very faint brown haze of body hair on his flat belly that vanished under his waistband, but otherwise, his lean, lithe body was smooth. Despite the elaboration of the tattooed sleeves, Adam was amused to note that a single open star had been rather inexpertly inked on the back of Toby’s right calf.

Mike’s muscled body was almost as smooth; his bulging pecs and ripped six-pack glistened with sweat under the gym’s fluorescent lights. The size of his hog was obvious in the skimpy shorts he chose to wear, as was his near-constant state of semi-erectness. Again, Toby followed him in this, but the skaterboy’s six inches couldn’t compare with his buff buddy’s long, thick cock.

And again, Adam smirked contemptuously. Neither one of them had a dick as big as his—but then, that was only to be expected from faggots. Might as well put ‘em outta their misery and put their meatsacks to some good purpose.

All of which was why Adam was crouched outside their rented condo. He wasn’t going in tonight; he’d simply been taking a look at the layout and hadn’t actually expected them to be home—they usually went out on Thursday nights. And Adam wanted them both together in the bedroom they shared, not down here. But despite having to watch their vile homo sex, the evening hadn’t been a total washout; the sick necro killer had learned that none of windows looking into the private fenced yard were kept locked. When he was ready, he wouldn’t have any problems gaining access to the interior of the unit.

Two days later, he was ready.

Mike and Toby had plans to go clubbing with some friends on Saturday night but the moment they’d paid their cover charge, Tyler had gotten into a bitchfight with his latest trick and it was easier to just split than listen to the squabbling. Besides, Mike would have preferred to stay home and lay pipe up Toby’s ass all night anyway; it was the latter who’d wanted to go out.

At any rate, they were home by about eleven that night. Half an hour later, both were in the bedroom. Mike was seated on the unmade bed wearing nothing more than a pair of American Eagle boxer briefs and a pair of Nike Vandal hightops. Both the kicks and the briefs were gray; the latter had a thick black waistband that stretched tautly around Mike’s narrow waist and black seams down the front that outlined the muscle twink’s huge package.

He was leaning back against the headboard, his left leg drawn up with the sneaker on the sheet and his right leg dangling. With one arm bent back behind his head as a sort of cushion, Mike toked on a freshly-lit joint and ogled Toby, who stood the center of the room.

The slim, tatted skaterpunk had slipped out of all his clothing. Completely nude except for his black Adidas Baseline kicks, he was returning from the attached bathroom, his own dick hard and bobbing in front of him as he approached Mike.

Reaching the bed, he stood next to it. “Here, gimme a hit,” he grinned, reaching out for the joint. Mike relinquished it but reached out himself, grabbing Toby’s shaft and jacking it as the younger punk inhaled deeply.

“That’s it,” Mike said approvingly as Toby exhaled a cloud of fragrant smoke, “Get yourself nice and high. You’re gonna need it before your ass goes off duty for the night.”

“Yeah, I bet,” Toby replied with stoned grin, “I know you’re—”

With a loud crash, the bedroom door was kicked open, a single, powerful kick that literally broke the door in half. A hulking masculine figure, dressed in black, strode into the room, raw power obvious in every step he took.

Adam had given up his usual gym attire for this one. He’d wanted to take the pansies by surprise and anyway their condo wasn’t a public place—he’d have no excuse for being seen near the place, so it was best not to be seen at all.

To that extent, he’d made sure that his long-sleeve t-shirt and tight-fitting cargo pants were matte black, nearly impossible to see under the cover of night. His bright copper hair was likewise covered with a close-fitting black knit cap. And he’d forgone his sneakers. While he’d been able to clear the fence the other night, his feet had nearly slipped; he wanted better traction.

He’d found it in a pair of Magnum Response III tactical boots, custom ordered with steel toes. He’d bought them for another reason, but thought they’d work perfectly for what he had in mind. He’d been right. He planted his big black lace-up boot in the middle of the door and kicked his way into the homos’ bedroom with almost no effort at all.

For Mike and Toby, the violence seemed to explode like a bomb. Their different personalities were obvious by their actions once the “fight or flight” instinct kicked in. Toby shrank back into a corner in fear as Mike leaped off the bed and came at the intruder.

He never stood a chance. Adam, seeing him coming, drew back his powerful arm and swung wide, driving his balled-up fist into Mike’s face with the force of a semi hitting a brick wall. The unlucky faggot spun in a half-circle, staggering back and falling, stunned, against the bed.

Filled with rage and lust, Adam turned to Toby, who crouched whimpering in the corner of the bedroom. Seeing that he’d attracted the intruder’s attention, the lean skater punk began babbling. “No, man,” he whined, holding up his hands, “Whatever you want, dude, just take it—please don’t hurt us, man, please don’t!”

Striding towards him with a homicidal gleam in his eye, Adam laughed coldly. “Yeah, I’m gonna take what I want, you fuckin’ pansy. I’m gonna take the fag right outta you, cunt. When I’m done with you, you ain’t ever gonna suck another cock again, cunt.”

By now, he was standing in front of Toby, looming over quaking homo. From behind, he could hear the long, slow groans of Mike regaining consciousness, but he wasn’t particularly worried about him. He’d handle the stronger fairy when he needed to.

Toby looked up at Adam, trying to understand his words. He was still terrified; this huge, powerful stranger had burst into the room and punched out Mike with a single blow—what the fuck was going on?

“Is-is this some kinda hate crime?” the long-haired punk quavered, his eyes starting to tear up.

Toby gasped at the size of Adam’s member; even Mike, big as he was, wasn’t that well-hung—this dude was some kinda freak. Despite himself, he could feel his own cock respond—limp with fear, it was now stiffening and standing erect.

Reaching down, Adam clamped one large strong hand around Toby’s throat and lifted him bodily off the ground. Holding him out at arm’s length, he chuckled as the skaterboy gagged and jerked, his black Adidas kicks swinging helplessly a foot from the ground.

Looking directly into Toby’s eyes, Adam smiled—a thin smile, sharp as the edge of a knife—and said, “Only one way to earn my cock, faggot—you gotta suffer. And you don’t know the meaning of that word yet, but don’t worry—I’ll teach ya. And yer little fairy boyfriend there too. You’ll both learn how to suffer real good.”

Staring into the cunt’s eyes, Adam caught a flicker of movement. Slamming Toby into the wall and dropping him like a sack of potatoes, the muscular killer wheeled around and caught Mike full in the face with another powerful punch, just as the buff young homo had regained his feet and launched himself for an attack.

With a loud grunt, Mike fell to the floor, bleeding from the corner of his mouth. Dazed by this second impact, he stared dully up at Adam. “Stupid piece a’ shit, aintcha?” Adam sneered. “Don’t know when to stay down, do ya? Here, maybe this’ll learn ya.” Stooping, he punched Mike in the face yet again. This time he was rewarded with the satisfying crunching sound of the faggot’s nose breaking, the cartilage crushed under the force of his fist.

Pausing for a moment, Adam unzipped one of the pockets on the left thigh of his cargo pants and withdrew several long zip ties. “You win the grand prize, you lucky cocksucker,” he smirked. “You get to watch. Pay attention, asswipe, so you’ll know what to expect when it’s your turn.”

The well-built homo was flipped onto his belly; he could feel a thin plastic tie cinch inexorably around his wrists and another around his ankles, but the two powerful blows to his face had rendered him incapable of any physical activity for the moment. By the time he recovered enough to attempt any resistance, it was too late. Strong as he was, Mike wasn’t able to stretch the zip ties so much as a quarter of an inch, much less break them.

Adam kicked the faggot’s prone body viciously, using enough force to roll him onto his back. Much like he’d handled Toby, the hulking, muscle-bound killer bent down and grabbed Mike by the throat, lifting him into the air. Gagging, his Nike Vandals kicking uselessly inches above the carpet, the hardbodied twink was manhandled back to the bed, where Adam tossed him down. Snatching a handful of hair, the sadist dragged Mike upright, propping him into a seated position where he could take in the entire bedroom in a single glance.

Mike was gonna have a perfect view of Adam snuffing Toby.

In the meantime the long-haired fairy had crawled back into the corner, his young face etched with bewildered terror. He’d always expected Mike to defend him if the need arose, but this huge, bulked-out psycho who’d burst in on them so unexpectedly had overpowered Mike like he’d been a little girl. Now the man was rounding on him, and he was helpless. Whatever was gonna happen, there was nothing he could do to stop it.

“Oh God, no,” he sniveled, cowering as Adam loomed over him. Glancing hesitantly up at his attacker, he watched mesmerized as the towering madman unexpectedly gabbed the hem of his own t-shirt and pulled it off over his head in a single, fluid motion, revealing his hard, furry torso that descended in a V-shape from his broad shoulders and firm, rounded pecs to his narrow waist. The knit cap had come off, tangled in the shirt, and revealed a slightly tangled mass of bright, coppery hair.

The dude was a serious stud. Toby felt himself getting hard. But that was despite of his terror, not because of it, and even though he could see a large translucent bead of precum oozing from the piss slit of the intruder’s cock, fear was taking more of his attention at the moment than horniness.

The fear was well-deserved. Adam bent down and grabbed a hank of Toby’s long hair. Wrapping it around his palm he jerked the squalling twink up onto his feet.

“C’mon, faggot, let’s get started,” he growled, grabbing Toby by the throat and hoisting him in the air again, “I gotta load to drain and I can already tell it’s gonna take a while to beat the queer outta a pathetic little homo like you.”

Toby only kicked in Adam’s grip for a moment before his face and his world exploded in pain. Adam punched him vicious in the face, then hurled him across the room. The skater’s lean body slammed into the front of the dresser. The force of the impact rolled him up over the top of it, scattering everything—their cell phones, their wallets, piles of loose change and receipts, all of it went flying as Toby smacked into the wall, then rolled back forward off the dresser and onto the floor.

Groaning in pain, the tattooed twink opened his eyes. To hurt to move, all he could see of his assailant as he approached were his laced-up boots. They came nearer, then one drew back. By the time Toby realized what it meant, it was too late to avoid it. With one single brutal kick from his steel-toed boot, Adam broke Toby’s jaw.

The lean, lithe punkboy spent the next minute or so writhing on the floor, gurgling and mewling in agony as Adam watched him with erect, throbbing satisfaction. The buff killer didn’t get to enjoy the view in peace for long, though—the other faggot began to squawk.

Adam looked around the room and soon saw what he’d expected to find. Ambling over to a pile of dirty laundry near the closet door, he bent down and picked up a reeking, stained jockstrap, stiff with cum. Turning back to Mike with a grin, he said, “You’ll get yer chance to squeal like a pig yerself later, cunt, for all the good it’ll do ya. In the meantime, keep your fuckin’ trap shut and enjoy watchin’ yer bitch suffer.” Rolling the jock into a ball, he forced it into Mike’s mouth, leaving the muscled top gagging and mute, but still able to see everything that happened.

While Adam’s attention was diverted, an instinct for self-preservation kicked in deep inside Toby’s craven soul. Even though the slightest movement of his head caused him terrible agony, he managed to rise to his hands and knees and crawl. By the time Adam had silenced Mike and turned back to Toby, the latter was halfway to the door.

“Oh no you don’t, asswipe,” Adam growled and headed for him. Toby could hear him approaching from behind; desperate tears leaked from his eyes as he realized he’d never make the door before the powerful psycho had reached him, but he had to keep going, he had to try…

When Adam got to him, he merely stood over the cringing, crawling twink for a moment, chuckling gutturally. Then he delivered another vicious, lightning-fast kick, this one connecting with Toby’s left elbow.

The force behind the steel-toed boot didn’t just dislocate the joint, it snapped the ball end off the humerus, tore the tendons and completely severed the ligaments. Despite the pain in his jaw, Toby screeched involuntarily as he collapsed and rolled onto his left side. Adam walked around the sobbing, trembling punk until he was facing him.

“Didja really think you were gonna get away, you stupid sack of shit? Fuck, dude, here I was tryin’ to make ya worth my dick, and now it looks like I’m gonna hafta kick the dumbass outta ya, you worthless faggot bitch.” Still sobbing incoherently, Toby didn’t even notice Adam raise his foot up.

He damn sure noticed when Adam stomped on his chest, the deep tread of his thick-soled boot grinding into Toby’s soft flesh. The loud snapping sound that accompanied it, like the splintering of a green limb, showed that one of the punkboy’s ribs had caved in under the sudden force—and if it didn’t show it, the sudden, high-pitched squeal forced from between Toby’s split, bleeding lips did.

“Fuck yeah! That’s what I’m talkin’ about!” Adam crowed, his huge, stiff cock pulsing visibly while he drank in the image of the tattooed skate punk writhing in nightmarish agony. He was really getting off on hurting the little homo, seeing the fear and pain in his eyes. And he still had another fucktoy in reserve—tonight was gonna be so fuckin’ hot…

Toby was wrapped in torment like a flaming blanket. Every part of him was throbbing with pain, from the dull ache of bruised flesh to the glassy torture of broken bones. He’d stopped trying to think; he could only endure. An involuntary muscle jerk had pulled his head slightly to the side—from where he lay on the floor, he could clearly see Mike on the bed. The idea that Mike might rescue him was long gone. Mike was on the other side of the room, but he might as well have been on the other side of the world. Toby could see that his boyfriend was crying, but it meant nothing.

Pain was the only thing that had meaning for Toby anymore. And Adam knew it.

The relentless sadist sneered at his prey. “Does it hurt, bitch? Yeah? It ain’t enough, you worthless sack of faggot shit; you ain’t hurt anywhere near enough yet to deserve my grade-A manmeat.” He raised his boot again. This time, Toby knew what was happening. As Adam stomped, the fit, lean youth swung his right arm up and knocked the alpha’s foot away with all the force he could muster.

“You stupid pansy,” Adam barked and planted his foot in the middle of the kid’s right forearm, his big black boot covering a large section of inked flesh. With a swift, smooth motion—so casual it almost looked rehearsed—the powerful psycho bent down, grabbed Toby right wrist, and pulled it violently upward. There was a quick double-snap as both the radius and the ulna splintered; when Adam let go, the kid’s arm flopped uselessly back to the floor.

Toby didn’t react to this new source of pain. Deep in sensory overload, he was starting to go into shock. Lying on his back with his smooth chest heaving in shallow, irregular gasps, the tortured twink stared the ceiling, his bright green eyes wide and vacant. His short, thick cock had gone limp, but that didn’t bother Adam. He knew the punk would get hard again by the time he was done with him.

After all, the meat would be even more pure if the worthless fag sperm was drained out of it before Adam fucked it.

As Toby continued to shudder and tremble on the floor, Adam waked around him until he was facing Mike on the bed. With a wide, deliberate grin, he raised his right foot and planted his boot on the young faggot’s neck. The sadistic killer stared directly into Mike’s disbelieving, tear-filled eyes. “Look, ma,” he whispered. “No hands.” The hulking stud slowly began shifting his weight onto the foot on Toby’s neck.

The tattooed skaterpunk could only stare helplessly up at the huge, muscle-bound figure towering over him; there was no way for Toby to defend himself. His broken arms jerked and flopped aimlessly, like dying fish; he had no way reach for the heavy black boot that was slowly—oh, so slowly—crushing his throat. If he kicked, he bent his abdomen, causing his snapped rib to dig agonizingly into his guts, threatening to puncture his lung and pancreas. If he tried to cry out, the jagged ends of his broken jaw ground together, causing hellish pain in his mouth…

Every movement bristled with torture, but Toby’s air was gradually being cut off. He couldn’t keep still. The tread on the killer’s sole was deep and intricate; as it sank into the tender flesh of his throat, what little lucidity the long-haired power bottom still possessed began to melt away in the face of impending asphyxiation.

Adam bent his head and spat in Toby’s face. “Gettin’ harder to breathe, ain’t it?” he chuckled. “See, as you choke an’ die, yer dick is gonna get all hard—and then yer gonna cum. Happens almost every time I choke out a faggot. You perverted little pansies empty your fuckin’ balls every time I waste ya—nothin’ turns ya on like gettin’ put down hard. You wanna suffer even more than I wanna fuck you up. Disgusting sack a’ shit—I gotta squeeze your load out and drain your sick fag seed outta yer meat to make it worthy of my cock. Don’t worry, motherfucker—I’ll fill yer worthless corpse with my sperm. I’ll baptize yer guts with hot manspunk before I leave you to rot. And best of all, your fairy-ass boyfriend gets to watch you die!”

The words hit Toby’s ears like a dull ache, utterly swamped in the rising tide of instinctive terror as his oxygen was cut off. He began to shudder and kick, helplessly flailing his firm, smooth legs and jerking his broken arms aimlessly. Air. He needed air.

And that was when it finally hit the lean twink—the realization that he was gonna die finally sank through the multiple layer of pain that had wrapped him like a cocoon. Panic set in, a terrifying white panic the left him conscious and aware but still unable to control his actions. Smirking, Adam watched Toby lose his shit as the boy choked under the alpha’s booted foot. The pathetic little homo thrashed, his Adidas Baseline kicks carving furrows in the carpet as his inked arms flailed limply and helplessly.

As he struggled, Toby’s long hair became tangled and dark with sweat. His entire body, in fact, was slick with sweat, the cold rank sweat of physical suffering. The brutalized faggot’s smooth firm flesh glistened in the light, even as his face began to swell and grow dark. “Hey, man,” Adam called out to Mike, “Lookit this shit. See how his eyes are bulgin’? That’s cause pressure’s building up in his head. Damn, motherfucker, that’s gotta hurt like shit.”

From his position on the floor, Toby found that he couldn’t look away from his killer’s tall, powerfully-built form—quite literally. As Adam had pointed out, his eyes were bulging; he couldn’t close them. Toby had no choice but to stare up at the stud who was snuffing him.

The most immediate part of Adam in Toby’s field of vision was the shaft of his boot, the black leather rising from the bottom of his line of sight—he could clearly see how the extra-long laces circled the top of the shaft and were tied in front. Above it, he could trace the line of the alpha’s thick calf and thigh muscles, outlined in the leg of his cargo pants.

Then there was the cock–the huge, throbbing shaft, jutting arrogantly in from, clear precum oozing in an almost steady stream…but Toby had to block that out, he couldn’t follow the link of pain and death and lust…

Beyond the webbed nylon belt circling his tight waist, the curly, golden fur that rose above the waistband, running up the killer’s ripped abs, spread out lushly on his broad, jutting pecs. Heaving with exertion, Adam’s chest glittered as he moved and beads of sweat caught in his body hair caught the light.

Above that, there was a face, a beautiful, cold, contempt-filled face surmounted by red-gold curls like a copper nimbus, but it was too far away. Toby was starting to have trouble seeing; darkness exploded in his sight light the blooms of huge black flowers. His tongue was swelling, causing the dying twink horrible pain as it forced aside his broken jaw, but there was nothing he could do. White, foamy drool leaked from his swelling lips, running down his chin and pooling around the treads of Adam’s utility boot.

The pounding in his heat was swift and intense; Toby could feel that it coincided with his speeding, panicked heart. Despite the pounding and loud ringing in his ears, the slowly choking youth could hear the sadistically mocking words of his killer.

“How’s it feel, dying like a fuckin’ insect, havin’ yer useless life ground out under my boot, faggot? Ya like gettin’ put down like the garbage you are, huh? Fuck yeah, you piece of shit, I toldja you’d get hard again. Disgustin’ little pervert, you just fuckin’ love it when a real man finally ends yer worthless existence. C’mon, homo, time to drain yer sick faggot sperm so I can fuck some clean meat.”

With a snarl, Adam leaned forward, throwing all his weight on his right foot. There was a loud crunch and the steel-toed boot suddenly sank a good two inches into Toby’s throat as the punk’s windpipe collapsed. The young fag’s attention, momentarily diverted to the bizarre phenomenon of his throbbing, painfully erect cock, experienced the blast of horrifying agony that accompanies a mortal injury.

Adam steadied himself as the lean, lithe body beneath his feet began to shudder violently. Toby’s huge green eyes, stained red by numerous ruptured blood vessels, rolled back into his head as he convulsed, his legs drawing up, then straightening as he kicked his life away with such force the Adidas sneaker was pulled off his left foot. The buff alpha knew what was happening; shifting his body to one side, he applied more pressure to the boot embedded in the twink’s neck, twisting his foot sideways.

With a loud cracking noise, Adam snapped Toby’s neck like a dead twig. As the sudden electrochemical shock flooded the dead kid’s nervous system, his erect shaft pulsed visibly and sent a solid stream of boyjizz up in a four-foot geyser. Disgust on his face, Adam managed to dodge the fountain of spunk, letting it splash back on Toby body as it continued to jerk and flail in its death throes.

“Fuck yeah, man, there we go,” the sick top gloated at the dead boy’s sobbing boyfriend. “Once that worthless fag spunk is unloaded, I’ll fill the meat with real manseed. Finally givin’ this useless pansy a purpose—it died so I can have a cumrag.”

Adam stalked across the room, retrieving a chair that was standing behind the closet door. As he did so, Mike, aflame with panic and anger, writhed violently on the bed. Unable to loosen the zip ties binding him, the muscle twink increased his efforts until he managed to rise up vertically on the bed. Once he was upright, though, he had no way of balancing himself and instantly felt himself falling over sideways.

His thick, muscular body hit the nightstand with a crash, causing him to start bleeding again from his already-broken nose. He fell to the floor, accompanied by the lamp. The bulb didn’t break; still lit, the light cast surreal shadows across the room from its low angle on the floor.

Adam had watched it all happen. He wasn’t worried about Mike; there was no way for the meat to break free of its bonds. And the dude had landed on the floor in a great position for a close-up of the next act.

The buff killer placed the chair upright in front of Mike, a few feet away. Then he bent down and grabbed Toby, manhandling the still-quivering corpse until he’d draped it face-down over the back of the chair. Then, without another word, he brandished his huge, dripping cock, grinned at Mike, and mounted the dead kid, his shaft penetrating Toby’s sphincter and sinking deeply into the meat’s guts.

“Fuck yeah, nice and smooth, just like I like ‘em,” Adam smirked as Mike burst anew into hot tears of outrage and terror. The bound punk struggled to protest, but the soiled jock had been shoved too deeply into his mouth for him to be able to force it out; all he could do was watch the violation of his boyfriend’s corpse in silence.

The chair creaked loudly as Adam gripped the meat’s narrow waist and plowed its still-spasming asshole. His furry, sweat-streaked flesh slapped loudly against Toby’s cooling skin as the alpha brutally pumped his shaft into the dead boy’s rectum. As he fucked the corpse, Adam reached up and grabbed a handful of the punk’s long hair and jerked it back, raising Toby’s head.

“Look at him,” the vicious sadist hissed at the crying, struggling boy on the ground, “Look at his face. See the pain and terror he endured? See how the horror of his last few seconds of life are etched into his face? Disgustin’ little faggot deserved to suffer so much more but he was weak. You ain’t. You can take what I’m gonna give ya—and it’s gonna be so much worse than what he went through.”

Adam never missed a single stroke of his brutal necro fuck as he spoke, slamming his gigantic rod into the corpse with a virulent power that was equal parts lust and hatred. Through his tears, Mike watched Toby’s body jerk and flop with every intrusive thrust of Adam’s hips.

Suddenly Adam’s face tightened. He gave a loud grunt, ramming his shaft home as his hulking, muscle-bound form went rigid. There was a loud crack and the chair began a slow-motion collapse under the weight of Adam’s orgasmic thrust. The killer had time to slide one booted foot forward and keep his balance as the chair bent forward and fell to the floor. Toby’s body fell with it, slowly sliding off the alpha’s still-shooting cock. Adam finished up by spraying his load onto the corpse’s back.

Snorting with contempt, Adam glared at Mike. “Fucker was totally worthless. Even dead, he couldn’t take a real man’s load. My balls are still fulla cum, motherfucker—now it’s yer turn. He was just the appetizer—you’re the main course, fuckwad. And I like to linger over my meat. Ready to dance, asswipe? Yer gonna die clawin’ and pissin’ yerself in agony, faggot.”

Mike shook his head frantically, the stained jockstrap protruding from his mouth. His already large brown eyes were huge with stunned shock; the sheer horror of watching his boyfriend’s snuff and necro-rape was reflected in his taut, pale face.

Bending down, Adam wrapped both hands around Mike’s throat. Hoisting the jerking, struggling youth into the air, he slammed him against the wall on the far side of the dresser. The terrified fag had a brief lucid moment to comprehend the sheer power of his assailant as Adam drew his right arm back, keeping Mike pinned with his back to the wall, several inches off the ground, with just one hand—and this with a loose enough grip to allow the beefy punk to breathe.

The he noticed that Adam’s hand had curled into a fist. He saw the dude’s massive bicep twitch—and then his world exploded in pain as Adam drove his fist into the pansy’s face with the force of a steam hammer.

Mike’s head rocked backwards, punching a hole in the drywall as his left cheekbone and the thin bone behind his left eye shattered. His hands, uselessly bound behind him, clawed at the wall, peeling off strips of paint with his fingernails. His loud cry was muffled by the reeking fabric shoved into his throat.

He didn’t need to worry about the gag for long. The bruised, battered homo was so stunned by the blow to his head that he never saw Adam’s thick arm draw back again. He felt it, though; the muscular sadist pounded his huge fist straight into Mike’s solar plexus, at the base of his sternum.

The writhing fag’s diaphragm spasmed, his well-built chest collapsing in as the air in his lungs was expelled violently enough for him to blow the jockstrap out of his mouth; it dropped to the floor in the few inches of no-man’s-land between the vicious killer and his helpless prey. Mike was unable to take advantage of his sudden freedom to speak—his entire attention was focused on being able to breathe. For several terrifying seconds, the buff young queerboy was unable to inhale, his lungs refusing to inflate. His eyes, wide and round, the left one blackening and swelling, were dulled over in sheer panic as he savored a foretaste of suffocation.

Suddenly the bulging groin of his American Eagle boxers darkened. Struggling and terrified, the well-built youth had pissed himself in terror, the yellow urine running down his legs and flowing into his Nikes. His one lucid thought was that however he was gonna die, he didn’t want to choke or suffocate. Anything but this, he begged silently in the dark empty corners of his mind. Anything but this.

Adam read the terror in the kid’s eyes and his grin widened and became shark-like. His thick, swinging dick stiffened as he contemplated the bound, helpless faggot in his grasp. The fucker was his do with as he pleased—and what pleased him damn sure wasn’t gonna please the homo.

Jerking and sweating, Mike suddenly inhaled deeply, managing to force oxygen back into his lungs. With no warning, Adam delivered a brutal gutpunch to the suspended boy, sinking his fist deep into Mike’s firm, flat belly and driving out the air again. This time, he released the kid, letting Mike fall back to the floor, shuddering and gasping like a landed fish dying on the deck of a trawler. As the fag’s face went purple, Adam stood over him, sneering.

“Lookitya, you pathetic piece a’ shit,” he drawled contemptuously. “Got yerself all buff an’ muscular, but yer still a worthless fuckin’ fairy. Your muscles ain’t no match for mine, asswipe; they ain’t gonna help ya now. I’m gonna fuck you up even worse than I did yer pansy-ass little boyfriend. Hey, remember when I did this to ‘im?”

With a swift kick of his powerful leg, Adam’s steel-toed boot smashed into Mike’s flank, shattering two ribs into multiple pieces. Once again, the handsome young homo had just regained his air, only to suffer a brutal impact that drove it back out. This one was worse, though. This one did major damage.

For the rest of Mike’s life—that is, for the next few minutes—the fit young punk desperately tried to breathe, never knowing that bone shards from his broken ribs had punctured his left lung, causing it slowly to deflate. He only knew the creeping terror of slow advancing suffocation—and pain. He became very familiar with pain.

Leaving one boot planted firmly on Mike’s chest, Adam leaned down and casually spit in the youth’s strained, agonized face. “Naw, man, I ain’t gonna kill ya with my feet like I did yer fucktoy,” he jeered. “That was fun, but I got somethin’ more…intense planned for you. But first, I wanna know—did he ever fuck you? Or were you always the top?”

Mike looked up at the alpha, his eyes running from the tightly laced boot on his chest up along the well-fitted black cargo pants to the huge, engorged shaft of manmeat that jutted out in front of Adam. Huge and oozing, it added an emphasis to the sadist’s questions that intimidated the fuck out of Mike. Wallowing in pain, he looked away, gasping and heaving.

“What was that, fuckmeat?” Adam grinned. Bending down, he clamped his left hand around Mike’s throat. The bulked-out psycho was strong enough to hoist the buff young homo into the air single-handedly. His windpipe was almost completely closed off this time and his left flank burned with pain where his ribs ground together but the attractive young punk unfortunately managed to remain somewhat lucid. Lucid enough to comprehend the sheer power of the man who had him so completely at his mercy.

He needed a way to fight back. Despite the pain, he needed to fight back or the same thing would happen to him that happened to Toby. Toby—oh fuck, Toby, what the fuck happened…they were just gonna have a fun evening and this fucker showed up…

With a lightning-fast lunge of his arm, Adam snatched at Mike’s piss-soaked briefs and tore them off him, the elastic at the waist snapping back painfully on Mike’s bare flesh. Nude except for his Nike hightops, the queer hunk dangled in mid-air, slowly choking as he struggled and squirmed, causing the zip ties binding his wrists and ankles to dig even deeper into his skin.

“Did that dead piece a’ shit lyin’ over there ever fuck you, asswipe?” Adam demanded. “Ever had a cock up yer boyhole? Answer me, fuckwad!” Adam punctuated his demand with another blow to Mike’s face, this one splitting his lips and knocking out one of the kid’s canines. “Can’t talk, motherfucker? Ok, just nod or shake yer head. Or I’m gonna beat ya to death right fuckin’ now.”

Mike’s lucidity was fast drowning in a rising tide of terror; he knew the hulking stud wasn’t kidding. Eventually, he forced himself to shake his head—not very well, but enough for Adam to feel it.

And when he did, he grinned. “Excellent. Ain’t nothin’ sweeter than fuckin’ a virgin corpse.”

Mike would have pissed himself again at the words if he hadn’t already emptied his bladder—and if his dick hadn’t grown unaccountably hard.

Adam noticed it too. “Fuckin’ fag pervert,” he snarled, “Ya like that, dontcha? You want my fuckin’ rod in ya so bad yer willin’ to die to get it, aintcha? Disgustin’ piece a’ shit—see, this is why I gotta waste ya. Doin’ the fuckin’ world a favor, I am, by clearin’ it of sick fucks like you.”

Mike could feel his pulse racing—it pounded in his temples and in his rigid cock. His eyes felt like they were gonna pop right out of his head; tears streamed down his cheeks. Pain and terror fought for control within him and he wondered if he was going to die like this, suspended in mid-air, shuddering and jerking.

And then he was sailing through the air. It happened in the blink of an eye; there was no warning—Adam simply tossed him across the room with no more effort than if he was a rag doll. The buff homo slammed violently into the wooden headboard. It broke in half vertically with a loud crack as a hundred and sixty pounds of muscled boymeat smashed against it and fell back limply onto the tangled pile of sheets covering the bed.

Barely conscious, Mike rolled onto his back and stared blankly up at the ceiling as well as his swollen eyes would allow—particularly the left one. His entire face was bruised and puffed up, aching horribly from the broken bones in his face. It hurt bad, but his side, where the snapped ribs were grinding against each other, hurt worse. His wrists and ankles were raw and nearly bleeding from the way the zip ties had cut into his flesh during his useless struggles. Fuck, it all hurt so bad…and then there was Toby…

The hardbodied young punk was losing his will to live. Mike had endured a ruthless mindfuck. Despite his impressive build, he wasn’t emotionally strong; he simply couldn’t handle the combination of mental and physical trauma he’d been forced to endure. Adam could see it in his eyes; the homo was starting to check out. He needed to move fast.

Suddenly Mike felt a weight on him. Adam was climbing onto the bed—and onto him. His blank stare no longer focused on the ceiling; now his killer filled his field of vision. Seeing the hard face, so cruel and so handsome, topped with copper curls, Mike knew he was looking into the face of the man who was gonna kill him. For the first time, he really knew it.

The power of the muscle-bound sadist was obvious; it was expressed in everything about him from the wiry, sweat-matted fur covering his broad hubcap pecs to the powerful tang of adrenaline and testosterone that was blended in with his musky perspiration. Mike knew he was strong, but he was helpless before this bulked-out hypermasculine stud.

Adam knew the score. He lowered himself down, letting his massive cock make contact with Mike’s flat, smooth belly. The thick, engorged head was oozing precum steadily; it acted as lube, letting the pulsing shaft of manmeat slide up Mike’s abdomen. As Adam lay full-length on Mike, belly to belly, their erect dicks were pressed between them, side by side.

“Look at me, faggot,” Adam whispered quietly, almost seductively, as he wrapped both hands around Mike’s throat. “Look me in the eyes as I put yer worthless ass down. I wanna watch your wasted life drain outta ya. I wanna see death in yer eyes. You feel me, bro? Last thing yer ever gonna see is my grinnin’ face as I wipe yer fag ass off the face of the earth.”

And then he started squeezing.

Mike had panicked as he’d been held up and dangled but Adam hadn’t been trying to strangle him then. This was different. This hurt a fuck of a lot more. He was low on oxygen as it was, his left lung having slowly collapsed over the last few minutes, but Adam was literally crushing his esophagus. The cruel killer had wrapped his fingers behind the boy’s neck but had placed his thumbs in front, right on the larynx. As he clamped his hands down with the force of steel trap, Mike’s voicebox was remorselessly shoved back into his throat, the cartilage deforming past its limits.

It hurt, Jesus, it hurt so fuckin’ bad. But as bad as it hurt, the pain receded into a loud buzzing in the background as white, blinding tide of terror rose within Mike. He was suffocating. He couldn’t breathe. Worse, he couldn’t fight it. He was helpless, pressed under the heavy mass of his killer’s muscles, his hands and legs excruciatingly bound. This was it, oh fuck, this was for real, no, no, he wasn’t gonna die, not now…

Adam knew the faggot was too far gone in fear to pay attention to anything he said. And while that was a good thing—fear was excellent for purifying faggotry—the little (compared to Adam) fuckwad needed to be brought back into the now. Applying some pressure, he swiftly and viciously dug his thumbs in and was rewarded with a loud crack.

Mike instantly stopped thrashing and stared with horror into Adam’s face. His larynx had just been crushed into a useless mass of mangled cartilage.

As his gorgeous but abused body went rigid in horrific agony, some dark corner of Mike’s mind-raped psyche knew the brutal sadist was speaking the truth. Even in the midst of overwhelming suffering, Mike could feel his own shaft, achingly erect, rubbing against his killer’s ripped, hairy abs.

“Time for lights out, asswipe,” Adam continued. “You’re almost clean enough for my cock. I just need to squeeze the defective homo sperm outta yer nutsack and you’ll be ready to receive the load of a real man. Time to die.” He paused, with a faint chuckle. “Ain’t like anyone’s gonna miss another faggot, anyways. Only one who mighta cared is already dead. And he was a damn lousy fuck.”

He squeezed even harder. Mike’s tongue, already thick, swelled to the point it forced his mouth open. The near-black tip parted the cunt’s blue lips as white foamy drool trickled down the youth’s cheeks. As the weight of asphyxiation crushed his chest, Mike’s tremulous sanity succumbed to remorseless hammering in his head. A screaming pitch-black vortex of sheer terror opened in his mind…

…but he wasn’t too far gone to hear—or to feel—the loud crackling, crunching sound as his trachea collapsed into a bloody mass of gristle under Adam’s relentless, vise-like grip. And in the utter shock of fatal injury, Mike shot a death load of epic proportions. His bulging eyes were looking directly into Adam’s as he felt an agony he’d never know could exist—it felt like his entire self, his life essence, had been violently ripped out and was being expelled in his hot, ropy jizz.

His powerful, sweaty body entwined with that of the dying muscular twink, Adam felt the faggot’s spunk splattering over his abs and soaking into the wiry fur that forested his bulked-out torso. It infuriated him—nasty homo seed contaminating his well-cared-for body. With a roar, he let go of Mike’s neck and grabbed the unlucky pansy’s ankles.

In the last five seconds of his life, Mike suffered one last time from the sadistic stranger’s hate and lust. Enraged, Adam jerked the kid’s legs apart. As ice-cold darkness closed in on him, Mike saw Adam’s huge, sweaty biceps flex awesomely—and then, with a loud snap, Adam broke the zip tie. The thin plastic dug through Mike’s flesh down to the bone, but it finally gave way before the sheer power of the hardbodied killer.

The cuts had severed an artery in Mike’s right ankle, but since his heart had stopped beating almost simultaneously, blood merely seeped from the wound instead of spurting. Adam wasn’t done with his victim, though.

Enraged, the psychotic stud brandished his hard, club-like cock and plunged it into Mike’s fuckhole. Even though the corpse’s sphincter was flaccid in death, it still wasn’t elastic enough to accept a shaft of the size of the one now being brutally rammed into it—Adam tore the dead kid’s ass open. “You worthless queerboy fucker,” he snarled, “Thought you’d make me a fag by squirtin’ yer diseased homo cum on me, huh? You ain’t the first faggot to try it, cunt, but ain’t none of ya ever man enough to turn me!”

His hips thrusting swiftly, Adam nailed the dead kid’s butthole. Sweat trickled down the small of his muscled back as he fucked the corpse, every pump of his cock violently expressing his hate and disgust for the fag he was banging. He became aware that his balls were drawing up as his semen started to boil over. And then orgasm hit him, almost like a violent cramp.

“Fuck!” he screamed, “Fuck!”

It was almost involuntary, the way his right arm drew back and then pumped forward like a steam piston, smashing into the corpse’s face. Adam didn’t try to stop it, though—it felt so fuckin’ right. As his cock swelled and spurted again, his fist shot forward again. And again. With every spurt of hot manseed from his engorged dick, Adam punched Mike’s swollen, blackened face as hard as he could.

This was what Adam had wanted, had hoped for—had worked for. It felt right.

He came a lot. A lot. By the time he was done, Mike was unrecognizable. Adam had beaten his face to hamburger.

With a deep sigh, Adam pulled back and sat on the bed, his dripping cock resting on the tangled sheets. He glanced around the room, noting the position of a couple of items, then got up and headed for the bathroom.

After spending a few minutes cleaning the drying semen off his torso, he tucked his dick back into his cargo pants. Grabbing a clean towel, he headed back to the bedroom. Once there, he used the towel to pry the Nike Vandals off Mike’s feet. They were soaked with the dead kid’s piss, but they could be cleaned.

Then he collected Toby’s Adidas kicks, pulling one off his foot and simply picking the other up off the floor. He’d seen a gym bag on the far side of the dresser; he used it to collect his trophies, picking up his long-sleeve t-shirt and his knit cap as he passed them. It was a cool night, but Adam was still warm and sweaty; he decided not to put either on at the moment.

Bag in hand, he paused at the door and looked back. Toby was still lying belly-up on the floor, his limbs and head all at grotesque angles to the body. Mike, his hands still bound behind him, was also lying belly-up on the bed, his legs spread, white spunk oozing from his ravaged asshole.

It wasn’t complete. He needed to recreate that first necro fuck for it to be right.

Leaving the bag at the door, Adam returned to Toby and rolled him over, off the broken remains of the chair, burying his dead swollen face in the carpet. With a quick step to the bed, the psycho killer grabbed Mike’s corpse under the arms, dragging it over to Toby’s. Tossing it down on top of the long-haired dude’s body like a sack of dirty laundry, Adam bent down and manipulated Mike’s still semi-erect penis into Toby’s ass, then adjusted the legs.

Stepping back, Adam admired his posing. It looked like a perfectly natural fuck. Well, except that Mike’s hands were still zip tied behind his back. And the fact that both punks had suffered major physical trauma. And that both were obviously dead.

As far as Adam was concerned, it was perfect. He’d erased any possible homo contamination from his first necro fuck. Picking up the bag, he headed out the door. Within six minutes, he was off the property, walking bare-chested down the street to where he’d parked his truck a safe distance away.

While he walked, Adam found his thoughts—and his cock—drawn to public restrooms.

It was almost midnight and Wes was ready to rock out. He was higher than fuck and horny as hell. He’d need money soon if he wanted to wanted to keep the high going, but there were ways of getting it—even ways of combining the two.

And combining the two was something Wes was good at. Just two months past his twenty-second birthday, he was slim and lean, with a perfect twink body that managed to attract a lot of dudes. The ugly ones, the ones who were fat or old, were usually willing to pay, and Wes would whore himself out if he needed—but he preferred to play a different game. After all, why bargain when you can steal?

It was the ice, of course—whether he smoked it, snorted it or shot it up, it got him too amped up to be controlled. Aside from the rampant horniness, it made him crave danger. Things could get ugly if the guy bangin’ him caught him in the act, but that didn’t happen often. And anyway, he was getting a lot better a rifling through wallets whenever his fuckbuddies’ backs were turned.

He was just under six feet tall with a broad face darkened with the faintest hint of facial hair under his turned-up nose and across his cheeks. His smooth, clear skin was not yet tainted from the meth use, although the dilation of his large dark eyes hinted at it. His brown hair was cut short on the sides of his head, but left longer—about three or four inches—on the top, carefully arranged to look casually tousled.

He was looking to take a dick up his ass and had dressed to make sure he got it. He wore a gray long-sleeve t-shirt that clung tightly to his lean, boyish chest. His black skinny jeans, even though they were tight enough to highlight the muscles in his long legs and the drug-enhanced bulge in his groin—and were held up by a thick leather belt clasped shut by a buckle with a black-on-black Superman logo—still sagged enough to show a couple of inches of the colorful boxers underneath.

His feet padded quietly in a pair of Under Armour Jet Express hightops; the kicks were a bright shade of blue that contrasted nicely with the black jeans. Since the jeans rode so low on Wes’s hips, the hems caught in the uppers of the sneakers, making it look like he’d deliberately tucked them in.

In short, Wes looked exactly like what he was, a hot little twink on the lookout for cock. The fact that he was also on the lookout for cash was probably a bit more obvious than he’d have liked. But it was Friday night and the gay bar was packed and raucous; the noisy crowd even managed to explain away some of the noticeable signs of Wes’s meth use, like his sweating and jitteriness.

The bar was only part of the large nightclub; it was teeming and dark, but it opened out onto a huge dance floor that dazzled the eyes with strobes, mirror balls, and smoke machines. The dance floor occupied at least half the building, while the bar only took up about a quarter. The other quarter was taken up by offices, bathrooms, and a game room with some arcade games and a couple of pool tables. Tonight, all the rooms were filled to capacity.

Wes had already cadged a drink of an old fat guy with a long beard and was leaning back against a wall and surveying the crowd for a likely mark when his eyes were drawn to a dude who’d just entered the bar from the game room. The guy was huge, at least six and a half feet, with black hair and stubble on his face; the hair was mostly hidden under a red trucker’s cap. He sported a white cotton wifebeater, too small and tight to leave any details of the stud’s muscle-bound and fur-covered chest to the imagination. The dude’s powerful build was obvious in every movement he made; the way his biceps and deltoids flexed as he turned and set his pool cue into a rack by the door made Wes drool with lust.

The stoned-out hustler moved away from the wall and approached the hot stud. As he got closer, he could see the guy’s tight jeans, faded to sky-blue and worn to the point of softness, with a tear on the inside of the left leg that teasingly revealed a firm, hairy inner thigh. The jeans were tucked into a pair of brown Justin Wyoming pull-on workboots.

The closer he got to the hulking stud, the more certain Wes was that this was the guy he was looking for. This guy was capable of feeding him dick the way he wanted, the way he so desperately needed tonight. And someone this hot had to have cash; the moment the stud looked away, Wes would pocket his dough.

Wes had no way of knowing it—and would have been too high and horny to pay attention if he had had a way—but he was very unlikely to catch this stud with his guard down. There was little the Trucker missed, especially when he was dealing with fagboy fuckmeat.

It’d been a couple of weeks since the Trucker left his last fucktoy dead in a ditch; he was back on the hunt and looking for a kill. He was familiar with this place; he’d stopped off here on his last haul through this town. On that occasion, he hadn’t found anything worth sticking his dick into; he’d ended up offing a street punk in an alley, but it had left him feeling unsatisfied.

Of course, that had been on a weeknight. This was Friday night—almost Saturday morning—and the place was full. The Trucker was sure he’d find someone tonight; in fact, he’d though he already had. The boy had been small and dark, hairy with olive skin. The Trucker had followed him into the game room and picked up a game of pool with him, but within minutes, the kid’s friends had shown up. The Trucker finished the game, but deep inside, he was raging with frustrated desire. The little punk never knew how lucky he was that his friends showed up.

Wes wasn’t lucky, and he didn’t have any friends. He approached the Trucker head-on, brazenly grinning up at the well-built hunk. “Hey, man, wanna buy me a drink?”

The Trucker glanced down incuriously at the boy, as he would at an insect crawling on the pavement.

“I’ll make it worth yer while,” the boyslut said.

“Yeah?” the Trucker inquired impassively. “How?”

Wes was too high for subtlety. “In the sack. I’m a great fuck.”

The Trucker sneered. “Yeah, heard that before.”

The DJ on the dance floor changed the music; the new shit was loud and cacophonous. Wes didn’t even try to make his voice heard over it; he just reached out and grabbed the massive ridge of denim-wrapped flesh that ran down the older man’s thigh. He didn’t expect it to be real; it was way too big. And he was used to guys padding out their groins; it’d get a lot of looks in the bars, even if it did lead to eventual disappointment.

With this type of fake enhancement in mind, Wes openly slipped his hand into the tear in the Trucker’s jeans. His fingers slid across the firm, thick thigh—and then stopped as they came into contact with an enormous shaft of semi-soft throbbing manmeat.

He looked up into the Trucker’s face, his eyes wide with amazement. He couldn’t believe the dude’s cock was really that big. “Forget the drink,” he said with an audible gulp during a lull in the music, “My apartment is three blocks from here. Put it in me, bro.”

The Trucker smirked. “Sure, faggot. I could use a good workout. Lessee if you can go the distance.”

This was what he’d been waiting for—meat that provided its own death pit. The Trucker was tired of cleaning out his cab after every fresh kill.

For his part, Wes was thrilled. He was stunned by how easy it was to lure his mark; the thought that he was the mark being lured never crossed his mind. What did flash across his mind was that if this dude was so eager, even if he did notice Wes had gone through his wallet he probably wouldn’t mind.

Ice had made Wes make bad decisions and jump to wrong conclusions before, but this was far and away the worst.

“C’mon, man, just follow me,” he said and started making his way through the crowd.

The Trucker was tall enough that he didn’t have to follow on the punk’s heels to see which way he was headed, and that suited him just fine. He left a little space between himself and the meat so that later on, nobody would associate the two of them together. Not that it was likely they’d be noticed in the randy, gyrating crowd anyway, but there was no sense in the Trucker taking chances.

After all, the meat was taking enough chances for them both.

Wes made it outside first. The Trucker ambled along, not worried about losing the kid; he knew he had this faggot already hooked. He took his time to cross the dance floor and walk nonchalantly out of the building in front of the bouncer—obviously alone. Nothing to connect him with the stupid little fuck who stood waiting under a streetlight halfway down the block and across the street.

The Trucker could see him the moment he exited the door. He walked towards him but kept to the opposite side of the street. The footsteps of his thick-soled workboots echoed off the nearby walls, but otherwise the side street was relatively quiet. Nobody hung out in front of the bar; most of the action was in the back, where there was parking and a patio with an outside bar. There was no one about to see him quickly cross the street and join the kid.

Wes was tweaking and impatient. He was afraid the hot musclestud had changed his mind until he saw the dude come out of the bar. He relaxed as much as the meth would let him, watching the tall, masculine figure stroll towards him, his legs swinging wide to accommodate the massive tackle that hung between them.

Without the noise and commotion of the bar to distract him, Wes was able to notice a few details that had escaped his attention before, like the jingly bits of metal that bounced on the dude’s broad chest and dangled from a chain around his neck; as the Trucker got closer, the slut realized they were dog tags. He also got a better look at the stud’s face.

He was aroused not only by the strong jaw and cheeks covered with just enough jet-black stubble to cast a shadow, but by the cold, hard expression on the handsome face and the icy glint in the pale blue eyes that he glimpsed momentarily under the brim of the cap. The last two were obvious danger signals; if Wes was less fucked-up, he might have heeded them. As it was, they just fed into his horniness, his craving for sexual danger.

The Trucker followed silently, his heavy footfalls the only sign he was keeping up. Wes’s Under Armour kicks made no sound on the gritty, cracked pavement as he dodged litter and reeking puddles in the alleyway, helped by an occasional overhead light. They crossed a couple of side streets, sticking to the alley, and suddenly came to a residential block.

“Over here,” Wes said and headed to the left towards a small two-story brick apartment building. The place was old and run-down; the windows were tiny and some of the ones upstairs had AC units precariously dangling from the sills, droning into the warm night. There were cracks in the brick from settling; none had been repaired and some of them were old and alarming large.

There was an oil-stained patch of asphalt in the rear that served as a parking lot; at the moment, it was mostly empty—no surprise, on a Friday night—with just a couple of broken-down pickups and a huge late-80’s Chrysler that belonged in a museum. Down the side of the building was regular pattern of a doorway followed by two windows; it looked like there were about four apartments down this one side.

Wes and the Trucker crossed the cracked, weed-choked asphalt to the rear-most door on the side. It was thin and painted a dingy, weathered white; it took Wes a moment to get it unlocked since the rusted light fixture above the door had no bulb and probably wouldn’t have worked if it had.

Once inside, Wes flipped on the light switch, revealing a tiny, barely-furnished efficiency apartment, a single room with a kitchen nook jutting off to the rear and a small bathroom. The barren, sterile light of a single overhead bulb was enough to illuminate the small space. The harsh overhead light shed no softening shadows on Wes’s bed—a mattress and box spring set sitting on the floor with no frame. The fitted sheet—once white, now with a sickly yellow tinge—still clung tenaciously to the mattress, but the flat sheet and the pillows were in a tangled mass halfway on the floor.

There was a large flat-screen TV against one wall (far and away the most expensive thing in the entire apartment), but no other furniture at all. The kitchen sink was piled with dishes and glasses; the only reason they didn’t litter the counter as well was that Wes didn’t have any more. Not to say that the counter was bare; on the contrary, it was cluttered with lots of empty booze bottles—most of them the cheap plastic kind.

The Trucker took it all in as he silently locked the door behind him. Wes never noticed. “Here, lemme open a window,” he said evidently embarrassed by the almost visible funk of cigarettes, meth, weed and boyspunk. And the room was stifling—Wes had hocked his AC months ago.

“Naw, boy, leave ‘em closed,” the Trucker drawled, “I like to sweat. And I wanna make you sweat.”

The boy turned to the towering stud, the bulge in his crotch pulsing visibly. For the first time, he got a good look at the Trucker’s chest—the muscled hunk was already perspiring enough to make his thin cotton wifebeater transparent. Wes could see details that had been invisible before, the thick, wiry chest fur, the large erect nipples surrounded by dark circles of flesh…

The Trucker leered, a cold, shark-like grin spreading across his handsome face. “Gonna hafta see if you deserve my wad, boy. Yer gonna hafta work for it—and if you ain’t workin’ hard enough, I got way to make ya. Think you can handle that?”

In response, Wes peeled off his t-shirt, revealing his smooth, lean, boyish chest, already glistening with sweat himself. “Dude, I can handle whatever you got,” he boasted.

The Trucker’s grin got even wider. He was gonna have so much fun proving the stupid little faggot wrong.

Digging into his pocket for his pack of Marlboros, he lit one up before reaching up and taking off the red trucker’s cap and tossing it on the floor. His hair was short but not shaved, a pure black that gleamed in the overhead light like silk. Wes, noticing the lit smoke, pulled back a small pile of dirty clothes near the mattress to reveal an ashtray on the bare wood floor; next to it were a phone charger and a small metal lamp, both plugged into the wall and within easy reach of the bed. The boywhore fished his own cigarettes out of his pocket, but didn’t get the chance to burn one.

Eager as a puppy, Wes dropped his pack of generic smokes and darted across the room. He instantly ran his hands over the rippled muscles on the Trucker’s hard, furry abs, feeling them through the thin fabric of the wifebeater. He stuck his hand down inside the Trucker’s jeans, reaching for the hem, but he made the mistake—or perhaps it was deliberate—of going in front and center, like he was reaching for the alpha’s dick.

The Trucker knocked his hand away. “Uh-uh,” he said, “You ain’t earned the right to feel my cock yet.” The stud grabbed the shirt and pulled it up out of his waistband before he let Wes continue.

Wes paused for a moment, unsure of himself. The Trucker took a deep drag off his cigarette and exhaled a thick cloud of bluish smoke into the punk’s face. “Whatcha waitin’ for, boy?” he growled, “I toldja to pull my shirt off!”

Responding instinctively to the hard edge of command in the Trucker’s voice, Wes grabbed the hem of the shirt and pulled it up. The hard-bodied alpha raised his arms to let the shirt come off over them; he knew damn well that the whore wasn’t tall enough to pull the shirt up over his head, but he kept the pretense up.

Wes has risen up on the toes of his electric-blue hightops in his attempt to raise his arms high enough when the Trucker suddenly planted his big hand on the back of the kid’s head and rammed Wes’s face into his hairy, reeking armpit. The kid gasped as the alpha ground his face into the warm, wiry pit hairs.

Before he could react, Wes’s face was pulled back, then forcibly rubbed against the Trucker’s chest. The powerful top was clutching a handful of the cunt’s hair, using it like a handle to maneuver Wes’s head. The boy could feel the alpha chest fur, moist with sweat, scratching at his face, when suddenly there was an erect mound of flesh in his mouth.

“Work my nipple, faggot,” the older man hissed roughly. Wes obey, slurping eagerly at the large knot. For a moment, he dug his teeth in and leaned back, stretching the dark flesh out, then the Trucker cuffed him in the head.

“That’s enough, cunt,” he snapped, pulling his shirt off himself and tossing it on the floor. “I gotta take a leak.” Walking to the bathroom, he bent down momentarily and tapped his ash into the ashtray beside the bed. It wasn’t a characteristic move for him. Usually, he just let the ash fall on the floor—after all, with the hour, the meat would be long past caring if the floor was dirty—but he had a gut feeling this time.

He was right. From the corner of his eye, the Trucker caught the whoreboy’s eyes glued to his ass. While that in itself wasn’t unusual—faggots always stared at the way denim cradled his firm, round asscheeks—there was something odd about the way the homo kept his eyes on one spot like a laser. The experienced mankiller knew exactly what was going on—the kid was fixated on his wallet.

The alpha turned back and retrieved his shirt. He removed the wallet form his hip pocket, rather ostentatiously, wrapped the shirt around it, and tossed it back down into his upturned cap lying on the floor. Satisfied, he headed to the bathroom.

It was a trap, of course. As he stood at the toilet, pounding out his piss, his blood boiled at the thought of the cheap hustler trying to steal from him. At the same time, the thought of what he’d do to the punk if he actually did try anything was starting to get him stiff. He let the stream of piss slow to a stop and listened, but heard nothing.

The kid was waiting. The Trucker could play that game, too. He kept still and silent for a good five minutes before he heard a faint rustle form the bedroom. When he threw the door open, he was already prepared for what he found.

Wes had already stripped. His gear was tossed onto the pile of dirty clothes; the belt with the black Superman logo was coiled on top. The slim youth was crouched, nude but for his ped socks, over the Trucker’s cap on the floor. He’d already managed to unwrap the shirt from the wallet and had just opened it up when the bathroom door opened and the Trucker emerged.

The room was so small the large, muscled killer was standing over Wes before the thieving fagboy even knew he was there. His pulse pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, Wes slowly turned to look at the Trucker’s brown, scuffed workboots next to him, then raised his eyes.

The homo punk’s gaze crawled up the Trucker’s thick legs, noticing almost for the first time how the tight denim barely contained the firm calf muscles, how the tear on the left thigh revealed the power of the thick thigh behind it. Then he raised his eyes further to the groin and gasped involuntarily in shock.

Wes, despite his youth, had taken a lot of dick in his life, but this…this was as intimidating as fuck. The Trucker’s erect member, huge and swollen, jutted from the unzipped fly out over the kid’s head; as he watched, a large transparent bead of precum welled out and fell on him—Wes could feel the moist potent heat of the drop on his scalp.

The thick veins writhing across the surface of the enormous cock expanded as the dark shaft pulsated. Wes was transfixed, both horrified and attracted by the massive rod of manmeat—it was too big, it would literally tear him a new asshole, but it was such hot fucking proof of manhood that the young power bottom couldn’t help getting hard himself, despite the inherent danger of the situation. The meth still circulating in his system went some ways towards explaining this—but not all the way. Stone cold sober, Wes still craved cock to the extent that he’d have walked into a bear trap to get this hot hardbodied stud’s tool.

It was hard to tear his gaze away from that mesmerizing rod of glistening, pulsating manmeat, but Wes’s eyes were drawn upwards, along the dude’s ripped, hairy abs to the dark forest of body hair covering the alpha’s broad, bulked-out chest. The glint of metal indicated the presence of the top’s dogtags, nestled in the dark, furry valley between the twin peaks of his thick hubcap pecs from which the large dark nipples protruded.

Again, the instant impression was of overwhelming masculine power. There was something about the alpha’s muscle-bound torso that suddenly reminded the lust-distracted faggot that he’d just been caught stealing. In his sudden fear, he raised his eyes to the Trucker’s face.

He took one look at the expression of unholy rage and triumph on the Trucker’s face and went pale in fear.

“No, man,” he started, “It ain’t what ya think—”

The Trucker bent down and slammed his fist into Wes’s temple. The blow to the head didn’t completely knock the whore out, but it sent him sprawling dazed onto the floor.

The muscled killer had tossed his first butt into the john. He pulled his pack out and lit another as he walked around the stunned, moaning youth. “So ya thought it was smart to go for my wallet, huh?” he sneered. “Guess I’m gonna hafta teach ya what a bad fuckin’ idea that was.”

Wes groaned tried to rise, placing his right hand flat on the floor to brace himself. Before he could move, the Trucker was there, grinding his bootheel onto the back of Wes’s hand.

“AHH! Wha—wha—” Wes cried out as the Trucker crouched down, keeping the cunt’s hand pinned to the wood floor.

“Ya see,” the Trucker said in an almost conversational tone, “I was just gonna fuck ya and snuff ya, but now I’m gonna hafta make ya suffer. You were gonna die tonight anyway, faggot, but now yer gonna die in agony. I gotta teach you a lesson that you’ll remember for the rest of your worthless life—which I’m guessing is gonna be about another half hour at most.” He paused and took a long, searching look at Wes’s lithe, lean body. “You’re young; you might make it to forty minutes. It don’t matter, as long as you learn what a huge fuckin’ mistake you made.”

Wes was about to reply that he already knew he’d made a mistake bringing this huge sexy psycho home when the Trucker reached down, grabbed one of the boy’s splayed fingers—the index finger—and jerked it up, violently. The snapping of bone wasn’t very loud but it echoed in the small room.

Wes’s scream was even louder.

“Good thing all yer low-life neighbors are out partyin’,” the Trucker chuckled. “Ain’t no one around to hear ya scream, asswipe. Not like they’d bother to help a worthless cumguzzlin’ fag like you anyway.”

The middle finger was next. It was larger, so the snapping sound was louder. “Are ya learnin’ to keep yer homo hands off my shit?” the sweat-slicked muscular killer asked, flicking the ash from his smoke into the cunt’s hair. Wes couldn’t answer; he could only moan and sob. “No?” the Trucker grinned. “Fuck, yer a stupid sack of shit. Guess I gotta keep learnin’ ya, huh?”

When the Trucker broke Wes’s ring finger, the cheap rentboy reacted, beating on the Trucker’s leg with his left hand and drawing his knees up under himself, trying to unbalance the sadist kneeling on his hand. The sadistic alpha laughed cruelly and leaned forward to put his entire body weight onto the bootheel that was crushing Wes’s hand.

“See, that’s the problem with you dumbass faggots,” he jeered, “Ya don’t even appreciate a good education. Gotta make ya learn the hard way, no matter how long it takes.” Wes’s howls of pain as his pinkie finger was shattered made the cracking of the bone almost inaudible, but they were nothing to the noise the cunt made when the Trucker went to work on his thumb. The muscle-bound killer didn’t break it; he wrenched it out of its socket, dislocating it, and wrung it around in huge circles, tearing the ligaments and tendons until it was useless.

Abruptly, the Trucker stood up and stretched. He stepped away from Wes and headed towards the kitchen. “Might as well make myself comfortable while I’m educatin’ ya, boy. Got anything decent to drink in this place?” He opened the cabinets and fridge. “Shit, all ya got is a coupla Buds? Figures. Worthless asshole.” There being no other alternative, he grabbed one anyway.

Wes had curled into a fetal position, cradling his broken and useless right hand. “You—you—” he sobbed, “You fuck—fuckin’ psycho…”

“Yeah, yeah,” the Trucker drawled as he opened the beer and took a swig. He walked over to the bed and placed the can on the floor next to the mattress, then returned to Wes. The whoreboy was just rising to his knees when the Trucker approached, grabbed a handful of the kid’s brown hair and dragged him, kicking and squalling, over to the bed.

Seating himself on the mattress at what would be considered the foot of the bed, the Trucker pulled Wes’s head into his crotch, and with his dick running across the wailing homo’s face, wrapped his leg around the kid’s neck to hold him in place. The well-built sadist then bent down and, grabbing the youth’s left arm, brought his hand up and continued the lesson.

This time he started with the little finger, a quiet snap that added no more to the agonized bleating that the pansy bitch was already making. “See, the best way to learn somethin’,” the Trucker said, taking the cigarette out of his mouth and exhaling into Wes’s face before taking another swig of beer, “Is to make sure it’s associated with somethin’ you ain’t gonna forget.” He went for the index finger this time, slowly bending it backwards until it cracked like a green twig. “Like pain. Ya feelin’ me, faggot?”

Wes screeched, his right arm flailing against the Trucker’s restraining leg, his mangled fingers slapping uselessly against the tight faded denim.

The cold, sadistic killer chuckled and knocked the ash from his smoke into Wes’s tear-streaked face before settling it back between his lips and causally breaking the ring finger on his left hand. The frantic fagboy jerked and kicked, his legs scrambling vainly on the wood floor, unable to find a purchase. “Stop! Help! Stop!” he screamed suddenly as he realized that he wasn’t going to be able to get out of this by himself—and that this was turning out far worse than he’d ever thought possible.

“Shaddup,” the Trucker snapped and punched him in the face.

Wes grunted, stunned by the impact that was so hard, it had broken the thin bone behind his left eye, which instantly began to swell and darken. His head lolled as the Trucker bent his index finger past the breaking point, the loud snap heard easily over Wes’s semi-conscious moans.

The Trucker chugged the rest of the beer, then jammed the smoldering butt of his smoke into the can and tossed it aside. Standing up, he let Wes slump to the ground, wallowing in pain. “Fuck,” the alpha grunted, “Got yer fuckin’ horse piss beer on my hands.” He headed to the bathroom and ran them under the sink.

It had taken him less than sixty seconds, but when he came back out, the Trucker found that Wes had managed to regain his feet and was trying to escape. Even though there was no possibility of that, the Trucker growled malignantly as he watched the panicked whoreboy’s futile attempts to work the doorknob of his own front door with all his fingers and one thumb broken and useless.

“Get back here, you stupid sack of faggot shit,” he snarled crossing instantly to him, “I ain’t done with you yet, asswipe. You still gotta lot to learn before you take yer dirt nap, cunt.”

Wes looked up at him, his youthful, once-arrogant face gray with shock and despair, and had a sudden realization of the nightmare he was about to endure. Blubbering mindlessly, he lost control of his bladder, his piss running down his legs and soaking his socks—and spattering on the Trucker’s boots.

Incandescent with rage, the sadistic powerhouse grabbed the desperate punk with both hands—one hand clamped around his throat and the other hand snapped shut on his scrotum like a steel trap, shutting off the flow of urine—and hoisted him in the air.

“Piss on me, will ya, you goddam faggot scum?” the Trucker roared and flung Wes headlong into the kitchen. Flying across the counter and stove, Wes barely had time to fling his arms over his head before he slammed excruciatingly into the far wall and fell to the floor with a clatter of pans and dishes.

The dazed, semi-conscious found himself flailing helplessly on the kitchen floor as the heavy, ominous tread of the Trucker’s boots came closer. Aside from the horrible pain wracking his lean, firm body, his sensations were vague. He knew that those approaching footsteps meant unrelenting suffering and torment, and that it had something to do with some imagined idea of hot intense sex he’d hoped for, but everything else was confused and distorted. He wasn’t even entirely sure where he was; this kinda pain couldn’t be happening in his own room…

The Trucker stood over the mewling boycunt writhing on the floor and kicked him in the gut, his steel-toed workboot sinking deeply into Wes’s smooth, soft, flat belly. “HOOG!” the faggot grunted as the impact knocked the air out of him. Wes looked up at the Trucker, his face soundlessly expressing his horror as he tried desperately to inhale.

The hardbodied alpha knelt down by Wes’s head. He grabbed the fuckboy’s carefully sculpted hair—now a tousled mass—and jerked his head up. Staring into the kid’s eyes, he spit into Wes’s face, the frothy spittle splattering on the punk’s forehead and trickling down into the boy’s left eye, which had turned black and swollen shut by now. The older man radiated violence and cruel power in the same way his slick mansweat filled the air with an acrid mix of testosterone and adrenalin, and some dim part of the whore’s mind was aware of his own traitorous, involuntary erection—

Wes heard the words but couldn’t process them. Out of his good right eye, he could see the Trucker’s handsome, scruff-covered face just inches from his—such a hot fucking dude couldn’t be trying to kill him, this was some kinda nightmare or he’d gotten hold of some bad ice and was freaking out—

The Trucker stood, pulling Wes up with him, one hand still clutching a hank of the boy’s hair and the other locked around his throat. This time, the alpha held the kicking pansy aloft for a moment, letting the boy choke and gag as his own body weight crushed his throat. Then he flung the slut across the room as hard as he could.

Wes hit the wall next to the window, collapsing the drywall and leaving a massive dent as he fell limply back to the floor with a thump like a sack of potatoes hitting the ground. He was still trying to catch his breath when the Trucker was on him again, hoisting him up by the throat. “You still want my cock, fag? Don’t worry, asswipe, I’m still gonna stick it in ya. You’ll get my load, cocksucker. ‘Course, you may have too much brain damage by then to enjoy it—but I’ll fuckin’ enjoy it enough for both of us. Sounds like a fair deal, huh, motherfucker?”

The frantic youth instinctively tried to claw at the Trucker’s arm. Every single contact of his hands on the brutal stud’s bicep and tricep was agony as his broken fingers twisted excruciatingly with the impact. But the crushing pain in his throat was swiftly overtaking his notice—his entire body weight was collapsing his esophagus in the Trucker’s vise-like grip.

He couldn’t breathe. Panic bubbled up in his fear-frozen pansy brain; lack of air had triggered a subconscious terror of asphyxiation.

Wes had never spent a moment of his shallow, drug-addled life speculating on what would be the worst way to die; now he knew, without any thought being involved. He didn’t want to choke to death.

The nude queerboy tried to plead wordlessly with the Trucker. A less experienced killer wouldn’t have been able to read the desperate expression on the swelling, blackening face, or understand the depths of sheer horror behind the tears leaking from the one eye not already swollen shut—but the Trucker did. He laughed aloud, a hard, cruel sound that drowned out the thick grunting noises coming from Wes’s closed-off throat.

“Don’t worry, cunt, I ain’t done with ya yet,” he chuckled. “Trust me, motherfucker, you’ll know when I’m offin’ ya—I’ll make goddam sure of that.” Then he gut-punched Wes twice in swift succession, his rock-hard fist first sinking into the kid’s belly as before. The second blow landed squarely on the solar plexus and Wes forgot all about the pain in his fingers and almost forgot the pain in his throat.

The Trucker laughed again as he watched the suffering faggot shudder limply in his grip. “Looks like yer about to go to sleep, boy,” he drawled. “Am I borin’ you, fuckmeat? Here, you stupid piece of fag shit, maybe this’ll teach ya to pay attention!”

He slammed the kid headfirst into the TV, holding him by the neck and throwing him like a dart. Wes’s head cracked the screen; his chest hit the TV stand. The stand was cheap particle board, but the boywhore hit it hard enough and at just the right angle to break two ribs on his left side.

The punk hit the floor and didn’t move. The Trucker lit up a smoke and sat back down on the bed, keeping an eye on the heaving, gasping pile of boymeat. He knew he needed to pace himself or he’d whack the motherfucker before he’d had a chance to fuck ‘im. And as much as he wanted to make the kid die, he particularly wanted to make the kid die while riding his cock.

Wes was lying inert, wrapped in a tight, throbbing blanket of pain. It hurt to move, it hurt to breathe; it even hurt to think. Especially if he thought about what the Trucker had said to him—so he didn’t think, at least not for a while. But he could still hear the breath of his sadistic assailant, long inhales and exhales as the alpha calmly smoked his cigarette and watched Wes suffer.

After a while, a cloudy sense of self-preservation began to stir in the craven twink’s mind. He was in a dangerous situation—he wouldn’t let himself recognize the true extent of the peril—and he needed to find a way out. There was no way he could physically escape; maybe he could talk to the guy, work something out with him. The fact that his thought process shied away from the real reason behind his inability to escape—the hot stud had casually and cheerfully broken his fingers, one by one—showed his distorted his thinking was.

There wasn’t anything to work out with the Trucker except how slowly and how painfully Wes was gonna die.

The Trucker wasn’t a mind reader, but he had enough experience offing worthless rentboys to have an accurate, if general, idea of the flow of the whore’s thoughts. The kid just couldn’t fit the idea of his own death into his shallow brain. The intensely cruel alpha smiled grimly and stood up.

Wes had rolled over, about to try reasoning with the Trucker, but the tone in the muscle-bound stud’s voice stopped him cold. It took about four steps for the Trucker to reach him from the bed. As the helpless punk stared up at the hulking figure towering over him, his words dried up on his cracked lips.

That amazing furry body, muscles glistening with sweat in the dim light, the enormous hog—thick, purple, pulsing in vein-wreathed lust—it was everything he wanted in a top, but this was too much, the dude was too aggressive…

…and then Trucker bent down to grab him again. “Wanna play, little boy?” he whispered with an evil grin, and Wes lost it.

“Oh please no,” he gasped, amazed at how painful it was to speak; every breath he took shifted the sharp, jagged ends of his broken ribs inside his abdomen. “Do…do what ya wa-want, but pl-please don’t hurt me anymore, oh please sir, dear god don’t hurt me no more…I’ll, I’ll do whatever you want, please, sir, I’m so sorry, take anything ya want, just, just…just no more pain…”

His entreaties became more frantic as the older man reached out to grab him again. “No! Fuck, please, no! Oh god, oh god, please fuck please no don’t fuck no—”

Again, the Trucker grabbed him in two places—by the throat and by the scrote. This time, though, there was no dangling. The hardbodied killer whirled around, flinging Wes on the bed at full speed. The homo slut hit the mattress and bounced up off it, smacking into the wall at the head of the bed and falling back, toppling the bedside lamp and knocking the ashtray across the room, leaving a trail of sooty ashes in its wake.

Before Wes could recover—it was taking him longer and longer to come back with each new bout of abuse—the Trucker had laid him flat on his back on the bed and had climbed between his legs, propping the kid’s socked feet on his shoulders. The sick top waited until Wes seemed to be conscious enough for comprehension.

“Know what, faggot?” he jeered at the dazed, agonized youth, “All this exercise is gettin’ me horny as fuck. Think it’s time to drain my load. Time to say yer prayers, motherfucker, cause once I use you as a cumrag, I’m gonna be done with ya. The hot squirt of my manseed deep in yer guts is gonna be the last thing yer fag ass feels before I put you down, ya piece a’ shit.”

And before Wes could even blink, the Trucker slammed his gigantic shaft balls-deep into the twink’s raw, unprepared fuckhole.

If he had been capable of rational thought, Wes would have felt betrayed by the way his young, form body refused to let him lapse into blessed unconsciousness under this new onslaught of excruciating pain. The searing agony of a ripped sphincter and a torn colon shot through his lithe form, forcing him into involuntary rigidity that only increased his suffering—his body no longer flexed to accommodate the huge thick rod of manflesh spearing his innards.

And greatest betrayal of all—in spite of his fear and pain, his own seven-inch cock went rigid itself with a painful stiffness as the Trucker’s cock ground its way over Wes’s prostate. He could feel it, over all the other stimuli. The badly-beaten punk was still struggling to breathe—he couldn’t scream, but a high-pitched squeal was forced out of him by sheer agony.

“Shaddup, meat, no one fuckin’ cares,” the Trucker barked and sucker-punched Wes in the face. There was a thick wet crunch as the whoreboy’s nose was crushed, and the Trucker achieved his purpose. It damn sure got Wes to stop squealing; the stunned youth’s wide eyes, circled with gray rings of shock stared at the alpha in abject horror as blood trickled from both nostrils.

The Trucker bent over, his massive hog plugging the kid’s ass. The dogtags around his neck hit Wes’s smooth chest with a clink and slid to one side as the muscled top lowered himself until their faces were inches apart. “Worthless fuckin’ faggot, can’t even take a real man’s cock,” the alpha growled, his expression a terrifying mix of rage and demonic glee. “You’re about to ride that cock right into your grave, fucker, and if you don’t stop squealin’ like a pig, I’ll break yer fuckin’ jaw.”

He gave his hips a sudden, single pump, ripping his swollen rod out of the kid’s ass—not completely; he left the billiard-ball-sized head inside the rectum—and driving it all the way back in. Wes’s entire face went gray with agony as the gigantic horsedick reamed out his colon; he strained until sweat coursed down his face but was unable to suppress a loud, bleating whimper.

The Trucker was as good as his word. He leaned forward, putting his left hand around Wes’s throat to support his weight and driving three hard, swift blows into the fag’s jaw, wielding his right fist like a sledgehammer. The punches were delivered with the force of a steam piston and by the time they were done, the boy’s jaw was broken and he’d had three teeth knocked out.

Best of all, the whore’s body had jumped and jerked with each impact; the Trucker had felt each blow reverberate in the whore’s asshole, making it squeeze his dick. The kid was gonna be a nice, responsive fuck.

Wes wallowed in pain; his face, his ass, his hands…there was a loud humming in his head that seemed to distort things. Was he on a bad trip? There was an incredibly hot stud fucking him; he could feel the top’s broad, muscular chest pressing against his own, the wiry body fur scraping painfully across his smooth, soft skin…too much pain, something was wrong. Maybe more ice would fix it…

“I need a hit,” Wes mumbled, not fully aware that he was speaking aloud, his broken jaw barely moving, his speech slurred. “Comin’ down—gimme another hit…”

Another three blows in rapid fire, striking the cunt’s torso. The Trucker had aimed with frightening precision at the spot where the kid’s ribs had broken. Wes screeched, ignoring the agony caused by the sudden, violent motion in his snapped jaw, as the jagged ends of the ribs were driven inwards, puncturing his left lung in two places.

The Trucker grinned and began fucking the suffering fuckmeat brutally.

Wes was beaten, in more ways than one. He could only lie on his back, arms and legs outspread, and try to breathe while the muscle-bound alpha hunched over him and raped him viciously. His left lung was collapsing; every breath of air was a desperate, agonizing struggle that taxed the diaphragm and tore the lung open even further. The weight of the older man’s heavy, hulking form pressing down on him only made it worse.

All in all, it was a blessing for Wes—the frantic attempt to breathe, to merely draw air into his one working lung drew his focus from his pain.

But pain was what made Wes work the Trucker’s dick. The Trucker was not happy. The meat was supposed to spend the last few minutes of its life pleasuring him; it needed to be reminded of its duty. He looked around and noticed the small bedside lamp lying on the floor right next to him. He reached out his left arm and grabbed it, then rose up on his knees.

The sudden lifting of the pressure on his chest gave Wes a chance to inhale enough oxygen to regain full awareness. Even as the tide of nightmarish suffering rose up around him, he looked up at the Trucker looming over him, holding the lamp.

As he watched, the powerful hardbodied older man held the lamp in one hand, wrapped the power cord around the other hand and pulled them apart. There was a quick bugling of his biceps and the cord came away with deceptive ease—it had taken a lot of strength to pull it out.

The alpha threw the lamp over his shoulder; it clattered off on the far side of the room. He held the cord up in front of Wes’s face and grinned. Nothing needed to be said; the boy knew what it meant and tears welled from his blackened eyes.

A glittering light, refracted from the surface of the Trucker’s dangling dogtags, danced hypnotically in front of Wes’s eyes; the panicked whoreboy his focus to be drawn from the cord to the light, steadfastly denying the obvious implications of the former until the Trucker bent forward. The icy glint in the alpha’s cold steely blue eyes broke the trance; his hot breath on the boy’s face brought Wes back to his excruciating, terrifying reality.

“Are you scared, little boy?” the Trucker mocked, “You should be. Yer gonna die now. It’s gonna take a little while and it’s gonna hurt like fuck, but it’s gonna be worth it cause yer gonna jack me off as you kick and struggle. Your death throes are gonna milk the cum right outta my cock. That’s why ya gotta die, homo—so I can shoot my wad. Stupid motherfuckin’ faggot; all yer good for is catchin’ my load in yer dead asshole.”

The lamp cord was long. The Trucker was able not only to wrap it around both hands to ensure his grip, he was able to loop it twice around Wes’s neck, lifting the cunt’s head up by the hair. The slut was past begging or pleading by this point; pain and terror had paralyzed his ability for positive action of any kind. All Wes could do was submit as his mind spun in a benumbed circle—he’d just wanted a good hard fuck, he’d found the perfect stud, what the fuck had happened? He’d totally forgotten his attempt at theft; he was the helpless and innocent victim of…of…

In the course of wrapping the cord around Wes’s neck, the Trucker had shifted to one side slightly. As Wes peered up at the alpha, now silhouetted in front of the overhead light, the battered fuckmeat’s swollen and tear-filled eyes could only perceive a looming, hulking outline of pure masculinity, the quintessential maleness of the muscular top emphasized by the adrenaline and testosterone escaping from the alpha’s sweat and overwhelming the small room with the atmosphere of mansex.

This was what Wes had wanted, what he’d craved and had been driven to seek night after night in seedy bars and back alley. Now he had it—and it was torturing him and killing him.

The Trucker tightened the cord, grinning sadistically as it sank into the tender flesh of Wes’s throat. He could see that the meat was sinking into mental shock; nothing like a little breath control to stop that shit. The cruel stud wanted his fucktoy in the here and now as it died. And, of course, the experienced killer was right.

The moment his air was cut off, Wes was brought back to reality, abruptly and involuntarily. He had a cold, clear moment of lucidity and remembered the instinctive, gut-wrenching horror he’d felt when his powerful tormentor had held him aloft by the throat and choked him.

Oh fuck. Oh fuck no. Not this. He couldn’t die like this, no, no, no no no nononono…

Panic descended on the helpless sack of fuckmeat in a black mist that clouded his eyes; the Trucker recognized the glazed look of terror. It always happened somewhere around this stage of the game; despite everything it was told, the fagmeat was usually too stupid to fully comprehend its impending death until it was actually in the process of dying.

Which, of course, was exactly why it had to die—it needed to be brought to this level of emotional intensity to properly work the Trucker’s cock. The muscled alpha tightened the cord further and braced himself for the first spasm of panicked struggle.

And even though Wes’s life expectancy was approximately five minutes, he did manage to learn some things in the last few nightmarish moments of his short, useless life.

He learned that panic only briefly numbed the pain, and that there was a terrible price to pay for his mindless flailings in terms of sheer agony. He kicked wildly, his heels drumming on the Trucker’s back with as much impact as if they were pillows; as his feet flailed, one of his ped socks slipped off and feel to the floor.

He slapped his hands repeatedly against the Trucker’s wrists in an instinctive and utterly futile attempt to wrest the killer’s implacable, relentless hold on his throat, his snapped fingers splaying and flopping limply. The excruciating pain of the jagged ends of the broken bones grinding into tissue and each other wasn’t alleviated, merely delayed. When it hit, Wes went rigid, shuddering with neural overload.

The fingers weren’t the only thing contributing to the punk’s mental short circuit. The complete collapse of his left lung was kinda moot at this point, but the way his broken ribs tore into the deflated organ with every twist of Wes’s lean, smooth torso was another, much more painful matter.

And then there was his cock—never truly unheeded even during his darkest moments, it had remained hard involuntarily throughout his sufferings merely by the grinding, remorseless pressure exerted on his prostate by the phenomenal girth of the Trucker’s massive rod. Now, though, it was actively swelling and throbbing in tempo with his racing, terrified pulse. And every single individual throb seemed like an electrical shock running the length of his shaft and churning in his balls…

The Trucker paced himself, holding still, letting the meat massage his dick as it thrashed in terror, wrapping its smooth strong legs around his waist and squeezing tight. Once it settled down into neural shock, the cruel alpha began speaking again, knowing the meat was still conscious and able to hear him.

“Are ya grateful to me, faggot? Do ya appreciate what I’m givin’ ya? Yer gonna get the honor of bein’ my cumdump. All ya gotta do is convulse nice and hard as I choke ya to death, an’ I’ll hose yer guts with my spunk.”

The Trucker found the expression of absolute despair on Wes’s swelling, blackening face incredibly erotic; jerking the cord even tighter, he spit on the trembling cunt pinned helplessly under his powerfully-muscled body. “That’s it, motherfucker,” he hissed, “Die on my dick.”

Thick black blossoms were popping open in Wes’s field of vision as blood vessels ruptured in his eyes. His entire body was awash in pain; the pressure in his mangled chest cavity was unendurable. His hypersensitive cock was rubbing against the Trucker’s firm, flat belly, the alpha’s body fur scraping the long, cum-filled ridge on the underside of the dick like a power sander.

And above the nightmarish agony of death, the beaten and raped whoremeat could still feel drops of precum oozing from the head of its own dick—it felt hot, like magma…

The Trucker realized that the meat was very close to death. His seed began to boil, his balls began to contract, forcing his white-hot cum on its journey up his huge, erect shaft. “You ready for my load, cunt?” he whispered into Wes’s dark face.

Foamy drool trickled down the whore’s face and his bulging eyes had rolled back in his head, leaving only the blood-streaked whites visible, but there was still a tiny fragment of Wes’s personality left, desperately straight-arming death in sheer terror. It was sinking under the relentless torrent of pain and brain damage, but it was still there—and it knew what the Trucker’s question meant.

The Trucker bunched his biceps and with a loud grunt, gave the cord a powerful jerk. At the same time, the thrusting of his hips increased, plunging his enormous shaft faster and deeper into the dying boy’s guts.

A loud wet crack echoed in the small room as Wes’s esophagus was crushed into a mangled wad of cartilage. Simultaneously, the Trucker cried out, “Fuck—FUCK!!” and pumped a huge load of hot sticky cum deep inside the meat.

The little part that was still Wes felt the sharp, knife-like pain of its collapsed windpipe and the searing, boiling wetness filling it from the inside out. There was time for one last fleeting thought—what happened dude I just wanted to get fucked—and then there was one last pain, the greatest and most intense pain, and it came from his dick. In his last moment of life, Wes knew he was blowing his death load and it hurt so fucking bad, it felt like he was cumming molten glass—

—and then all that was left was convulsing meat, thrashing and ejaculating mindlessly, impaled on the Trucker’s still-shooting rod. White ropy jets of semen erupted from the dead kid’s dick, splattering across the alpha’s broad, hairy chest and smearing his dogtags. The corpse, its prostate still being forcibly massaged by the Trucker’s pumping shaft, remained erect and spewing boycum that spattered itself, pooling in the eyes and covering their grotesque, bulging blank whiteness.

After a while—he didn’t know how long—the Trucker shuddered to a stop, his huge scrotum drained. He’d pumped a full load into the meat; so much, some trickled from the dead kid’s ass when the older man pulled out. Once he got his boots back on the ground, the sweat-slick muscled stud headed to the bathroom. A few minutes with a wet towel was enough to wipe the boypig cum off his body and out of his fur.

Returning to the bedroom, the Trucker retrieved his cap, shirt and wallet. Replacing the red trucking cap on his head, covering his dark hair, he tucked his wallet in one rear pocket and his white wifebeater in the other, where it dangled out behind. Fishing out his pack of smokes, he decided to burn one while surveying the scene.

The sadistic alpha felt a sense of satisfaction; he’d done a very thorough job. The meat was on its back, blank cum-filled eyes pointed at the ceiling. The arms were above the head and the legs were spread, showing the glaze of semen leaking from the torn asshole. The semi-soft cock was still extended its full length and likely to remain so; it was glued to the flat belly by a thick crust of boyspunk.

Halfway up, the neck was puckered and drawn in so deeply it was difficult to make out the cord that was sunk into it. Above that, the faggot was unrecognizable, the face black, swollen and covered with drool from between the dead kid’s purple, foamy lips.

The corpse still twitched randomly, the toes on the bare sockless foot curling, but as the Trucker finished his cigarette, the stupid homo’s brain finally figured out it was dead and the body became still. The hardbodied alpha grinned and tossed his butt on the floor. Grinding it out with his boot, he headed for his truck, leaving the apartment door cracked open.

Figures, Donato thought, Sarge has gotta walk in and catch me in the middle of a yawn…

“You bored, Donato?” the Sarge barked.

“No, sergeant,” Donato replied.

“Awright, what’s goin’ on here? Jesus, what a fuckin’ mess. Looks like someone got terminated with extreme prejudice, as they say in the movies.”

“We got a call about a dead body, Sarge. Me and Ayers, we responded. Ayers is out talkin’ to the neighbors now.”

The Sarge ambled over to the bed and took a good look at the body. “ME on the way?”

“Yeah,” Donato replied, “Med examiner’s got the meatwagon comin’.”

“Well tell ‘im not to waste too much time over this one. Some faggot got fucked to death. And by th’ looks of this place, someone really wanted this one dead. I seen a lot of these, but this is the first one where it looks like our killer tried to put the vic through the wall. Oh, Ayers, there ya are. What’d ya find out about the dead meat?”

“Well, like you was just sayin’, Sarge, some fag who got fucked to death. Lady next door knows him as Wes—office ain’t open yet, so I ain’t gotta last name. Anyways, she sez he’s out at the bars almost every night, always bringin’ dudes home—she can hear everythin’ through wall. Even sez there’s been some yellin’ an’ fightin’ at times. Seems like the little cocksucker liked to rip off his fuckbuddies.”

“Hey, Sarge?” Donato interrupted, “Dunno if yer interested, but I found a meth pipe in a drawer in the kitchen. Some baggies with residue, too—ya want I should test ‘em?

“What, are you nuts?” the Sarge barked. “You wanna go spend the taxpayer’s money for that kinda shit? When the ME gets here, tell him to haul this pile of meat outta here. And if he can’t tell me anything more than this little fuck got the shit beat outta him by some real strong guy, he can spare me the autopsy report. I can see for myself the faggot was raped and strangled. Serves the thievin’ piece a’ shit right. Just wrap this shit up and forget it; y’all have real work to do.”

He awoke in the trunk of the car as the chloroform wore off, terrified and confused. But as he heard the voices coming from the vehicle cab he realized it was the two men he had engaged briefly in the bar. His dick swelled in his pants despite the cramped and bumpy ride. They had made a reference to no-limits trips in their banter, and a playroom for special bottom men outside of town. “You’ll never have sex that good again in your life” they said. They had left way before him expressing the hope that their paths crossed again, he echoed the hope and said he’d love to see that playroom. He remembered now that he had seen the two men sitting in a parked car, and nodded to them as he passed. Not looking back, he hoped they would follow him and headed for an empty stretch of road through a small park, images of his desires rising from his imagination on a tide of adrenaline. Apparently they had followed him and taken the opportunity given.

Now bruised and battered he watched as all evidence of his identity went up in smoke at their rural compound. Excitement, anticipation, fear, and a strange sense of freedom all passed through him, and again his dick rose. The two tall, hard looking men watched from a distance and knew they had chosen well. They prodded the fire with sticks until the last vestiges of clothing and ID had been reduced to ash.

In the light of sunrise he got a better look at the two men he had been speaking to in the bar. Taller than he, lean and muscular and with lightly hairy bodies, they were not handsome, but were incredibly sexy with strong angular features. They both stretched and he could see the thick bush under their arms as well as the outline of large endowments under their pants. He was at full attention now, and they saw it. Even naked on the cold ground, hands tied, he wanted them, and what he knew they were offering. As if to tease him, one of the men pulled out his dick to piss on the ashes of his identity. “Please!” He called out to them. They knew what he wanted, and both men came over to soak his head in their hot piss, letting him drink when he opened his mouth for them.

Good boy!” One said when they were through, before kicking him hard in the balls. He groaned but spread his legs wider and leaned back to show he needed precisely that. And how much he needed it was a surprise even to him…fantasy finally about to be real. The man caressed his captive’s scrotum with the toe of his logger boots before settling the weight of his heel on the man’s balls. Captor and captive stared into each other’s eyes as the heel slowly crushed the tied man’s balls. His hard on did not go away and precum rolled out of the tip of his dick as the pain in his nuts grew. Both topmen smiled at this and the heel was withdrawn. “We’ll save those for later, but they are going to be ruined and taken”. “I’m Joe, and this is Skyler. You don’t have a name anymore.” They could have been brothers, they were certainly lovers, and one had his hand around the other’s shoulder, patting his stomach when he said his name.

“Do you know what we have in store for you?” Joe asked smiling broadly. “You’re going to torture and kill me.” They noticed how his balls rose and fell as he said that, additional indication of his arousal at the thought.

“Yes,” said Skyler, “fuck up that pretty body, ruin those big balls and cut them off, and live-gut you.” As he said live-gut he ran his own hand up and down his beautiful abdomen. The captive sucked in breath but said nothing. Skyler kicked him in the balls again and said “What do you think? Do you like the way that sounds?” The captive let out a yelp, but when he had gotten his breath back simply said. “Yes. Yes sir.”

Joe and Skyler pulled their genitals out from their jeans and each in his turn fucked the captive’s face coming deeply down his throat as he gagged and fought for breath. Sperm dripped down his chin and they wiped it on their fingers. They did not have to force him to lick the fingers clean. They untied him from the stake and when he made no attempt to run or fight, untied his hands. Again he made no effort to escape. They had seen seeming consent turn to fear and regret in other men, even men who thought they wanted this kind of thrill. Those men had been kept bound as they tortured and killed them: and killed them with great pleasure as they always did. To be on the safe side though, they gave their captive a locked collar and chain, and when not in use kept him locked up.

Taking him to the barn they hosed him down, hosed him out and then each one fucked him. He was surprised they could get hard again so soon after the blow job and eagerly milked their sperm out with his hole. Afterwards Joe used his fist to push the mingled sperm as far into his captive as he could, punching his balls with his free hand. They then hung him by his collar, hauling him up with the chain, until his hard dick shot and he passed out, and then they lowered and revived him, massaging his neck as he came to. They each kissed him hard on the lips relishing the taste of their mingled sperm in the captive’s mouth. Despite his having been hung, his dick rose again. Each took a long thick sewing needle of the kind that might be used to mend canvas or perhaps leather. Skyler pushed his through the captives left nipple while Joe simultaneously pierced his right. The captive moaned through gritted teeth as he was pierced and again, clear fluid dripped from his dick. They locked his chain to a pole near an old cot with a canteen of water and told the captive he was not to remove the needles under any circumstances. They had no idea how excited their captive was. Even after hours alone in the hot barn the pain in his nipples and ache in his balls kept him company and kept him aroused. There was no place to relieve himself, so when he needed to he pissed on his own naked body and that helped keep him excited as well.

It occurred to him with not a little surprise that with all this going on he had not had a moment of extreme fear since the terms of his captivity became clear. He felt certain that as the time of his gutting approached, there would have to be intense fear. But now all he felt was that odd freedom, a crazy pleasure in the pain his body was registering and the excitement of what he hoped was the sexual ultimate.

Later in the day Joe and Skyler returned, again bare chested and with their genitals exposed through their jeans. These were impressive men, absolute alphas in every way and clearly lovers of snuff. They were cruel but appreciative of their subject and how he took what they were dishing out. They let him clean their armpits with his tongue, and then their balls and holes and he was in heaven. They put additional needles through his nipples and around his pecs and gave him poppers for which he was very grateful. He moaned uncontrollably from the sensation of it and screamed loudly as they inserted pins into his abs and armpits. They loved the screaming, and pulled on the needles and squeezed his nipples until blood ran down his chest. They tied his scrotum tightly so his balls were tight within the sac’s skin and inserted brads into his balls, pushing the heads through the skin of the scrotum so they could not be removed. When his balls were full of them Joe gently cradled them in one hand and punched them with the other until they were soaked in blood and the blood dripped from Joe’s hand.

Through it all the captive moaned and thrashed, but he fought hard not to recoil from the pain. He had longed for precisely this it and still was amazed by his acceptance and lack of fear. His dick was hard and dripped constantly with precum. On two occasions he begged the two torturers to stop because he did not want to come. They had never had a man like this; a man who even knowing he was going to be killed relished the pleasure hidden in the torture they were giving him. They were surprised how much they liked it, usually relishing the change in their playmates as the end point of the play became real to them. They both fucked him again at this point, using his own blood as lube, and he pushed his ass up against them as they came, whimpering from the intense sensations in his body. They washed the congealing blood from his body with their piss and then hung him again until he came and passed out. He whispered “thank you” as they revived.

They left him alone again, chain locked to a post. He had not eaten in what may well have been 24 hours, he was not sure. But he was not hungry. He was hungry for these men: hungry to give them what they wanted and to please them in giving it. His body was a mass of pain, but the reality of his condition was so congruent with his years of fantasy that he knew he had chosen properly by allowing them to take him.

He must have slept, because when he opened his eyes it was sunrise again, and he was woken by them pissing on his face. He opened his mouth and drank as much of the fluid as he could and they were very demonstrative with their praise “GOOD boy!!” Skyler said, “Good Snuff-boy”.

They were wide awake and clearly very excited, this time naked, so he figured it could not be long now before the final play. They dragged him off of the cot and hosed him down with a cold hard stream of water. This accentuated the sting in his nipples and balls, still pierced with metal and by now very swollen. The sting got his dick hard in no time and he was ready to go, ready for the final act. They bent him over a table and again fucked him, each one pissing up his ass has they finished. They then laid him on his back and each one fisted him. Joe worked the sperm and piss as deeply as he could into the captive’s intestines. Skyler got in deep and worked the captive’s hole as hard as he could. He could feel the captive’s body open to him and see both the need and pain in his eyes. He whispered in the captive’s ear “I’m going to open my fist, puncture your guts and let that sperm and piss out into your abdomen. Get ready boy.” For a second his blood ran cold and then his desire exploded. “Please” he croaked through a dry throat. They gave him poppers and Skyler went to town ramming into the captive’s hole and destroying his intestines. The captive’s eyes went wide with the pain and his dick briefly shrunk, but quickly rose again and he could not look away from the arm tearing up his body. When Skyler’s arm came out it was covered in blood, and the captive had felt things he could not believe. He moaned loud and deep as Skyler went in again, his flat hand like a blade in the captive’s body. “Yeah boy, that’s it” said Skyler as he fucked his open hand in to the captive’s hole as hard as he could. “Take it fucker!” The captive arched his back to give Skyler access while Joe skull fucked him. The captive was delirious with desire for the taste of Joe’s sperm and he marveled at the pain that washed over him and coursed through his insides. There was no turning back at all. Even if they stopped, he’d be dead from infection within 24 hours and the realization thrilled and scared the shit out of him at the same time.

When they saw the captive was close they withdrew, and Skyler’s arm dripped with blood and intestinal mucous. There was no way that the captive could live, but the two men were not planning to let him anyway, and the captive was lost in the experience, barely able to think straight. Pain, pleasure, years of fantasy suddenly made real had him in another world. They laid him out flat and Joe finally pulled all the needles out of his nipples and pecs. He gave the captive a hit of poppers again and with pliers worked his nips until they were unrecognizable. The captive moaned and thrashed but kept his hands at his sides and watched, even as Skyler finally took a scalpel and cut the mutilated pieces of meat off his chest. They then turned their attention to the captives balls, still filled with metal, swollen and purple. Skyler tied them off tightly and hammered them until there was clearly no solid meat inside the scrotum. All three took a hit of poppers before Joe used his hunting knife to cut the scrotum off, the captive screaming hard and stiffening from the pain. He watched eyes wide, breathing hard and fast and did not hesitate to lick at his own balls as Skyler held them in front of his mouth and demanded it. Through it all his dick remained hard and dripped seminal fluid.

He was a little shocked at how weak he was when Joe and Skyler dragged him to his feet, but he felt exactly as he had thought he would if he ever reached this point. His intuition and imagination had lead him correctly to this place. He understood he was being killed, but the sexual excitement and feelings in his body were somehow right, somehow what he was meant to feel. His knees buckled under him from his body’s state and Joe and Skyler struggled briefly to keep him upright as they lead him to another part of the barn. “Easy boy, just a little longer and the fun reaches a peak”.

They help him to a rectangular frame and shackle his arms and legs, spread out with access to both front and rear. He is wild eyed but knows exactly what is going on. They shoot him up with speed and caverject to keep him conscious and hard to the very end and he manages to get a moan of pure pleasure out as the drugs take hold. He is excited and ready for what he has dreamed of for so long, and with the drugs giving him strength, braces himself as they both begin to whip him. Skyler at the front and Joe at the back, they whip him till his body is raw and pink and streaks of blood begin to appear. They put the whips down and piss on his wounds, Skyler mounting a ladder to piss in the captive’s eagerly opened mouth. They bring out the gutting tool and the captive seeing this moans in anticipation, and if it is even possible his dick gets harder still. With one hand Joe works the captive’s dick as the other gently pushes the first blade into the captive’s abdomen just where his pubic hair ends. Blood begins to flow lazily, flowing over the captive’s dick and Joe’s hand before dripping to the floor. Joe works the dick carefully, not wanting to bring the man to orgasm too soon. He loves this part, loves the killing. When he has pierced the membrane below the muscle he gets the hooked blade in as the captive watches, unable to look away from his own butchering. Then he works quickly bringing the blade up to the sternum as the captive gasps from the feeling. The captive leans forward as best he can, straining to watch and in so doing opens the incision allowing his entrails to tumble out onto his dick and Joe’s hand. “Oh FUCK, oh Jesus!!!” he screams as his death orgasm erupts. All three of them look in each other’s eyes, bound together by the intensity and of this act and one after the other they come. The captive’s entrails sag to the ground and Skyler reaches into the body cavity to caress him from the inside. The Captive moans uncontrollably as he feels the hand inside him and is lost in a roiling mass of sensation that he never could have imagined. Time stands still as the last of his semen is squeezed out of his prostate by the intensity of the orgasm. Joe shoves the barrel of a gun into the captive’s mouth and blows his brains out just as he figures the man’s orgasm is fading. Another huge string of sperm erupts as the body slumps. Joe and Skyler fall into each other’s arms and fuck like the animals, as a fine mist of blood and brains falls on their sweaty bodies.

…at two now and the queen and six cancel each other out, but the pair of tens that idiot split take it to zero…

It was a slow night and the count sucked. Carlos had already dropped two hundred bucks playing five-dollar minimum blackjack. It had taken three hours and the count had never gone double-digit positive. He was done; he got up off the stool and left the table.

The buff sexual killer had taken up card counting in his spare time and had actually developed a talent for it. The casinos frowned on it, but it wasn’t illegal, and Carlos wasn’t making large bets—it was just a pastime.

It had come in handy at the moment; Nick was out in LA, evaluating video editing software at a convention. Carlos, left to his own devices, was bored and horny, which was a very dangerous combination for some unfortunate boy. But he didn’t want to mess up the condo; Nick had plans for a shoot there once he got back and would be especially eager to get it rolling if he found a good editor in California. So Carlos had gone to a casino instead.

It was a local casino—still a large complex with a big hotel attached, but located well north of downtown and not a common destination for tourists. The inside of the casino, though, was the typical cacophony of music, electronic sounds and voice clips. A kaleidoscope of flashing lights and video screens viewed through a smoky haze, there is something unique about a casino; it even has a distinctive smell. By now, Carlos was familiar with it all.

But he was done here tonight. He’d been sucking back free beers that the cocktails waitresses brought round, but he was by no means drunk. He did, however, need to piss, so he headed for the men’s room.

The closest one was still a good hundred yards away as the crow flies, but crows didn’t have to navigate around clusters of elderly Chinese women clutching slot machines like they were life support. It took Carlos a while to make some headway—and that gave him the chance to realize that he was being followed. The kid wasn’t very good at it, but that might not have been his fault; the winding path the sadistic alpha was forced to take made it kinda obvious.

Carlos didn’t get a detailed impression at the boy; he wasn’t going to be so blunt as to turn around and look behind himself. But his massive cock began to shift and stiffen; in his tight jeans, it was very visible that the long tube of flesh running down his left thigh was stirring to attention.

The boy entered the restroom twenty seconds after he did. There was an older man standing at the far urinal; he flushed and zipped up as Carlos went to one of the urinals in the middle. This place still had ashtrays attached to the urinals; the old dude had parked his butt there. He left without washing his hands, the acrid scent of his cheap smoke lingering afterwards in the silent room. They were alone.

Getting a good look at the kid’s face, Carlos felt a flicker of recognition. He’d seen the boy recently; he just couldn’t quite place the face.

He knew where he wanted to place it, though—under the heel of his boot.

“H-hey,” the boy faltered nervously, “Name’s Cody. I, uh—well, I been watchin’ ya for a bit…”

That was where Carlos had seen him; the little fuck had been slinking around in the background, among the small crowd that occasionally gathers to watch the play at a blackjack table. He’d peered over Carlos’s shoulder several times.

Cody looked young. His fashionably disheveled hair was swept in dirty blond bangs low across his forehead, partially obscuring his huge brown eyes. The kid’s cheeks were smooth and rounded, but there was a faint brown fuzz on his upper lip. The boy had to be over twenty-one to be in the casino, but he looked like he was barely out of puberty.

Cody’s skinny jeans outlined his lean, youth body extremely well. They had a low-rise waistband, and the tight t-shirt wrapped around his torso didn’t come all the way down, leaving the skin at the base of the spine exposed, along with the punk’s tramp stamp. The t-shirt was thin cotton in bright yellow; it left nothing of Cody’s flat belly or slender but firm chest to the imagination. Carlos noticed a tattoo on the inside of the kid’s wrist; it looked like a spider.

The youth sported a pair of Supra Skytop 2 hightops in black leather; they added little to his height. Carlos was almost six and a half feet tall, but Cody was no taller than five foot nine. The boy might not be actively trolling for sex, but he was dressed to show off his lean young body. His tight clothing displayed more than that, though—the long bulge running down the kid’s thigh swelled noticeably as his eyes ran lasciviously over the hardbodied alpha’s muscled form.

“Yeah?” Carlos questioned nonchalantly.

“Well, I—uh, I saw the way you were movin’ your bets, and, uh…”

“Yeah? So I was movin’ my bets. So what?”

The kid gulped and blushed. “You, um—yer countin’, aintcha?” he asked quickly, getting the question out before embarrassment overcame him.

A large grin of sharklike proportions covered Carlos’s face. “Sure, boy,” he chuckled, “I can teach ya a lot.”

Carlos wasn’t dressed provocatively, at least for him. He was in his typical gear, tight black jeans and a tank top with a low scooped neck that gripped his torso and displayed his tattoos and hard, hairy chest to perfection; the thick links of the gold chain around his neck sparkled under the bathroom’s fluorescents. A black do-rag on his shaved head and a pair of slightly worn black harness boots on his feet completed the casual look.

Again, for him, nothing special. To Cody, though, he appeared as a physical avatar of masculinity, a rough trade badass who could teach him how to successfully count cards. The kid’s youthful face broke into a broad smile.

“Excellent, dude! Aw, man, I been lookin’ to learn for a long time. Plenty of ways to get lessons in Vegas, but I ain’t got no money for anythin’ real, y’know what I’m sayin’? Lotsa grifters out there, but you, you look…”

A faint gleam of lust lit deep within the boy’s large brown eyes as his voice trailed off in distraction.

“Ok,” Carlos rumbled, “Your place in—lessee, what time is it? Almost eleven? Ok, your place in about an hour.”

Again Cody blushed with embarrassment. “My place? Ok, well, um…”

“What’s wrong?” Carlos sneered. “Don’t got yer own place?”

“Yeah, I do,” Cody said slowly, “But it’s kinda a mess. See, I’m a handyman for the complex I live in. I get the apartment rent-free, but I take my work home with me sometimes. There’s a lot of machine parts and tools scattered about. It ain’t very clean, either…”

“Fuck, bro, I ain’t comin’ by to grade yer fuckin’ housekeeping. You wanna learn to count or not?”

Carlos gave the kid a thin-lipped smile. “Trust me,” he said quietly, “I’ll be there.”

An hour later, exactly on schedule, Carlos eased the red Benz convertible into a narrow parking space at the back end of the lot in the apartment complex. He strolled casually across the asphalt, his boots thumping loudly, his wide-legged stance caused by the thick tube of manmeat dangling between his thighs.

The apartment was in the far rear corner; a tiny patio opened directly out onto a dumpster. Its location clearly made it one of the least desirable units in the complex, hence it was a perfect place to lodge the handyman rent-free. The light near the door was out—little fucker wasn’t a very good caretaker—so Carlos knocked at the door in darkness. A slit of light appeared and widened, then filled with Cody’s eager face.

“You came!” he exclaimed, “Cool!” He stepped aside and opened the door, letting Carlos in. “Sorry about the heat, dude, the AC’s on the fritz and I ain’t got around to fixin’ it yet.”

Well, that certainly explained the funk inside the apartment; the lack of ventilation enhanced the background scent of marijuana and boysweat. The unit was small and dingy, most of the interior light coming from a large flat-screen TV; a paused video game was on the screen. A faint glow in the left rear corner indicated the kitchen; it was the light in the vent hood over the stove.

The heat also explained Cody’s outfit, or utter lack of one. His lean form stood before Carlos clad in nothing but a pair of white cotton briefs, his smooth, clear skin glistening with sweat. The tighty whities did nothing to hide the kid’s thick, half-erect shaft. The coiled tube of flesh stirred as the boy looked at Carlos.

“C’mon man, in here,” Cody chirped, heading towards a larger rectangle of light on the right side; it emerged from the open bedroom door. “”Like I said, place is a mess. Bed is the only clear space ya can spread out the cards.”

A quick glimpse around confirmed the truth of this statement. There was a tiny dinette set near the kitchen, the table piled high with machine parts. More were scattered about randomly on the floor.

The chaos was even more intense in the bedroom. Piles of dirty clothes, mostly jeans and soiled t-shirts were spread across the floor. At least two pairs of well-worn work boots were scattered around the room. On the dresser next to the bed was a well-stocked tool belt—and two decks of cards.

“Over here, bro,” Cody said, swiping the tangled bedding—limited as it was—to the floor, leaving the stained mattress free of encumbrance. Blinking his long-lashed eyes, he managed to catch a hint of disgust in the hardman’s face. “Yeah, I know, but I can’t afford any better. Yet. But now that I’m learnin’ to count, I’ll be makin’ some easy money, right, bro?” He flashed a broad happy grin at Carlos.

The alpha grunted and picked up the decks of cards. Quickly removing them from the boxes and discarding the unneeded cards, he expertly shuffled the cards in midair between his large, strong hands.

“I’m gonna deal seven hands and the dealer,” the older man said evenly. “This is simple. Tens through aces are counted minus one and deuce through six are counted plus one. Got it?”

“Yeah,” Cody replied thoughtfully. “What about seven through nine?”

“They’re zero. Don’t count ‘em. Anyway, here we go. I’ll play out the whole table but leave the cards out till the end of the hand. In real life, yer gonna need to be fast enough to do this before the dealer clears the table.”

The two of them played out all hands—four busted, two wins and a push on dealer eighteen. When it was done, Carlos, still standing, asked, “Ok, boy. What’s the count?”

Cody blinked rapidly. “Uh—I got four…” he said hesitantly.

Carlos grinned. “Good! That’s right, four. That’s the raw count. To get the true count, you gotta divide by the number of decks remaining in the shoe. Since we just started with two decks, the true count is closer to two.”

“Um, ok,” Cody said doubtfully, “But most casinos use a six-deck shoe…”

“Yeah,” Carlos grinned, “So you gotta be good with yer math. And fast. Learn to pair up combinations. You see a ten and a six come out, they automatically cancel each other out, so you can dismiss ‘em, see?”

“Yeah, I-I guess…”

“Ok, we’ll go again.”

Carlos dealt another complete table and played it out, this time at a faster pace. Cody managed to keep up, correctly calculating that the count had gone negative. After a third time at an even greater speed, the kid still kept pace.

By this time, the heat coming off two virile male bodies in the small unventilated room was making Carlos sweat. His tank top was sticking unpleasantly to his back; unthinkingly, as he finished up the fourth round, he reached down and swept it off over his shoulder in a single smooth motion, tossing into a corner where it ended up draped over one of the kid’s well-worn workboots—

—and Cody immediately lost the count.

“So what is it, boy?” the alpha asked as he stood over Cody, the latter still seated on the bare mattress. “What’re we up to now? What’s the count?”

“Geez, dude, you got a hot bod…” Cody muttered, standing up. The muscled killer could see that the youth’s hormones were working overtime; his dick was fully erect, not only tenting the cotton briefs, but staining the crotch with a dark, widening circle of precum.

“What’s that?” Carlos snarled icily. “You some kinda faggot?”

Cody, lost in lust, never heard the danger signal, the cold erotic hate in the buff top’s rumbling voice. His eyes fixated on the glimmering loop of metal links nestled in Carlos’s chest hair. “Lemme see yer dick,” the slim youth panted, “Pull it out and put it in me, bro…”

“You want my cock?” Carlos growled, his hands curling into tight fists as he took a step closer to where the nearly-nude punk was sitting on the mattress, “What make you think a cum-suckin’ fairy like you deserves a real man’s tool?”

As the muscled alpha closed in on the boy, the thick bulge in the tight denim of his crotch was visibly pulsating. Cody focused on it, unaware of the imminent menace looming over him—until Carlos grabbed his neck in a crushing iron grip. Looking up, he saw the boiling rage in the older man’s eyes…

…and had a sudden sense of the overwhelming power and strength of the stranger he’d invited into his apartment. His eyes widened as he felt an intense stab of fear. “Wha-what’s wrong, dude?” he gasped, his voice croaking.

“Worthless fuckin’ homo,” Carlos spat out and jerked him off the bed, dangling him in midair. “I’m gonna teach ya what a sack a’ shit like you deserves. Ready to learn, cunt? It’s gonna hurt like fuck!”

And with that, he bunched his thick, bulging bicep and slammed a line-drive blow straight from his shoulder into Cody’s mouth, splitting the kid’s lips and knocking out his left canine tooth.

The stunned youth kicked and jerked helplessly in midair, squealing in pain as blood trickled down his chin.

“Fuck yeah!” Carlos crowed. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ bout!” Cody heard the words, but before he could react, there was another bright red burst of terrible pain. The helpless, bewildered kid not only felt his nose break as the alpha’s fist smashed it, he could hear the loud cracking sound it made as it was crushed. He squealed again, louder and more shrilly.

Gagging and flailing, his bare feet kicking helplessly a good foot of the ground, Cody clawed at the unbelievably strong hand that was clutching his throat like a steel clamp. He didn’t hear the powerful sadist’s words; he was choking, his pulse pounding deafeningly in his ears as the edges of the world began to grow gray.

He could still see enough, though, to see the dude’s other hand swinging towards him again. It would have been hard for him to miss—the massive, balled-up fist was headed directly towards his eye. The blow rocked his head back, the impact hard enough to stun him into a state of semi-consciousness. In the loud angry darkness that consumed him, his only awareness that Carlos had flung him back down onto the bed was a sense of violent motion and the realization that he could breathe again.

Then his blurred vision began to clear, and he looked up. Towering over him, Carlos stood like a muscled god, the older man’s face harsh expression somehow emphasized by the black do-rag on his head and the dark stubble on his face. The tattoos on his hairy chest and down his bulging deltoids and triceps were illuminated by the sheen of sweat on the alpha’s skin. The young punk, as always attracted to bright, shiny objects, found his attention drawn back to the glittering gold chain lying on the top’s heaving chest—until a motion below the waist caught his notice.

Carlos had unbuttoned his fly and was slowly extracting the tremendous length of his cock from his jeans. Battered and in pain, Cody still found himself unable to look away as inch after inch of throbbing manflesh emerged from the tight denim confines. His mind, still reeling in shock, remembered that he’d wanted to have that huge horsedick inside him; there was no way he could take that thing, it’d split him wide open—

—and hidden in a corner of his faggot brain’s pleasure center, tucked deep within his midbrain, the power bottom pain pig facet of his personality responded. Cody didn’t know it yet, but his own dick was getting stiffer by the second.

“Stupid little cunt,” Carlos growled menacingly, “Ya thought you deserved this hog? Ya think a queer-ass bitch like you should get my cock? Only one way for you to earn my cum, scumbag—and you ain’t gonna like it.”

Carlos paused for a second, then laughed, deeply, erotically, ominously. “You ain’t gonna like it, cocksucker, but I sure the fuck am.” Holding his thick, vein-wrapped shaft in one hand, he slapped it repeatedly in the palm of the other hand, splattering precum over the shuddering youth on the bed.

Cody moaned as the hot transparent drops rained on his lithe body. The throbbing pain in his face faded into the background once he realized the sadistic alpha was reaching out for him again. The pain receded before the icy hand of fear that clutched at his heart.

“Wha—no!” he bleated, cowering vainly on the bed. His arms came up to block Carlos’s hand, but he wasn’t fast enough. “Dude, no, plea—urk!!”

His protest was cut off abruptly, along with his air. Beating ineffectually at the buff top’s incredibly powerful arm, he felt himself jerked up off the bare mattress and helplessly dangled, his bare boyfeet kicking uselessly in midair.

Despite his swollen, blackened eye, Cody could see the psychotic light of rage in the older man’s cold eyes. Gagging and flailing as he choked, he dug his fingernails into Carlos’s wrist—he did it in spite of himself, with a vague awareness that resistance would only make things worse.

He was right.

“Big mistake, cunt,” Carlos snarled as Cody, in his panic, drew blood. “Big fuckin’ mistake.” Drawing his fist back, he rammed it forward with the force of a piledriver, sinking it deep into the kid’s smooth, firm belly. Cody’s eyes widened as the intense blast of pain hit; it hurt so bad, he’d have puked if his throat hadn’t been clamped shut.

By the time he was done, Cody could no longer hear his words. He had passed out from pain and lack of oxygen. Limply tossed back onto the bed, he was in no position to know that the alpha had lifted him higher and jerked his briefs off first, or to notice Carlos admiring his tool belt—

—or that the buff sexual sadist had extracted a huge, flat-bladed screwdriver with a twelve-inch shank of solid steel.

Slowly regaining consciousness, Cody found himself curled in a fetal position, instinctively trying to protect his badly beaten and bruised abdomen. Surfacing in a rough sea of suffering, the battered youth could remain lucid only in flashes. He remembered meeting an incredibly hot stud; he remembered the stud showing up at his apartment…and now there was nothing but terrible agony…he couldn’t remember exactly what had happened or why…

And then sudden motion made him realize that Carlos had climbed onto the bed with him, and he remembered.

Cody knew something really bad was about to happen. The agony of his badly-pummeled abdomen kept him from crying out; all he could do was shrink back on the bed, whimpering as tears streaked down his swollen face. He shook his head wildly side to side when Carlos grabbed his ankles and forced his legs wide apart, but he head to look up involuntarily when he felt pressure against his clenched sphincter.

The older man was up on his knees, between Cody’s spread legs, leering down at the prostate youth. And between them, Cody could see his own dick standing straight up and oozing from the tip. The powerful alpha, emitting menace and testosterone from every pore, spat on the writhing kid.

“Even after I beat the fuck outta ya, you still want the D,” he sneered, his voice dripping with contempt, “Goddam faggot, you wanna get fucked even if it kills ya, huh? Guess what, you worthless asswipe—looks like you’re gonna get what ya want. It is gonna kill ya!”

Leaning forward, Carlos thrust with his hips. There was a brief resistance, a sudden ripping sensation, and then his freakishly huge shaft was buried in Cody’s guts. A second sense of resistance, brushed aside during the plunge, indicated the point at which the alpha’s massive purple tip had impacted Cody’s prostate.

It wasn’t the only thing. Even as Cody shrieked in nightmarish agony as his sphincter was torn apart, his cock pulsed visibly and drooled out a steady stream of precum.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Carlos muttered with an arrogant grin as he ground his rough, wiry pubes against Cody’s smooth, tender asscheeks, “Fuckin’ pansy power bottom homo.”

Taking a deep breath, Cody screamed again, his voice cracking shrilly. All the pain of his vicious beating had faded to a background hum compared to the searing torture in his rectum. He’d taken dick up his ass before, plenty of times—but this was like getting raped by a horse—

And then, even though Cody didn’t think it possible, it got even worse.

The sadistic killer held the screwdriver directly in front of Cody’s bloodshot, tear-filled eyes so the boy could contemplate all the ways in which it could be used to inflict pain—not that he was allowed long to contemplate. Carlos, living up to his muscular, inked, rough trade look, reversed the tip of the screwdriver and slammed it down. The large flat blade pierced Cody’s smooth flat belly like a hot knife through butter, the thick steel shaft sinking nearly to the hilt.

Cody’s eyes grew huge, dark circles of shock ringing them and making them look even larger. His hands reached up and clawed at Carlos’s chest fur as his breath was expelled in a loud, agonized grunt. As a tidal wave of anguish swept over him, he could see the gleam of sexual insanity in the powerful top’s eyes.

Jerking the tool back up out of Cody’s gut, the psycho alpha held it up and admired the long, blood-streaked shank as the lean, lithe youth writhed and mewled in nightmarish pain beneath him. A slow, cunning smile crept over Carlos’s face, and he whipped his hand out to the side and rammed the screwdriver into the helpless kid’s flank, puncturing the smooth, soft flesh just under the rib cage and punching the cold steel shaft through Cody’s kidney and up into his spleen.

The sudden intense agony of organ trauma crushed Cody in a fiery grip. His hands clutched at Carlos’s upper arms, his fingers so tight on the hardbodied top’s biceps that his fingertips were turning white with pressure. The kid’s eyes, wide with physical shock, stared unseeingly into Carlos’s. As badly as he was suffering, the lean punk could feel every vein-wrapped inch of thick manmeat rammed up his ass; even his cock ached unbearably as the older man’s shaft pressed against his prostate and preventing his own erection form going limp.

Cody could hear the older man whispering, but could barely follow the words. Seeing this, Carlos decided to emphasize his words.

Lowering himself down until his heavy, muscled body was on top of the faggot’s, Carlos let his weight press the kid into the mattress. Bending his head forward to that the unshaven scruff on his face scraped Cody’s cheek, he muttered softly in the boy’s ear.

With that, he twisted the screwdriver in the wound, then viciously reamed the handle in a wide circle, churning the strong steel shank through the young cunt’s tender innards. The icy slashing pain deep inside him made Cody clutch his assailant even harder, pulling him close in an involuntary embrace of nightmarish pain.

It also made Cody realize that he was gonna die. He was getting assfucked and he wasn’t gonna survive it. He didn’t know why—it made no sense, he needed answers…

“Wh-why…” he moaned faintly. Carlos’s head was still against his; he could feel himself trapped under the weight of the powerful stud on top of him, sliding across his smooth, slick flesh on a film of mansweat. His lips were against the alpha’s ear; he didn’t need to speak loudly. “Ju-ju-just wanted t’ g-get fuck-fucked, man, why k-kill me…”

Carlos pulled back just a bit and sneered down at Cody. The kid’s face was taut with pain, his long sandy blond bangs plastered to his forehead by sweat. The kid’s agony was so fuckin’ hot. Carlos spat in Cody’s face, the phlegm trickling down his cheek along with his tears.

Cody bleated incoherently in terror. His desperate struggles to free him merely aroused his rapist, who shuddered with pleasure as the smooth, slick boyflesh slid against him while the sick sadist lay full-length on top of his victim. “Yeah, bitch, ya like that, huh? That thought get ya all horny? Like ridin’ two hard shafts at once, yeah? Here, try this, cunt, lessee if it’ll make yer dick even harder!”

Jerking the tool back out of the meat’s side, Carlos rose up on his knees. Beneath him, Cody shuddered in pain, his breath coming in short, agonized gasps. His handsome, youthful face was almost unrecognizable, twisted and gray with unimaginable torment and serious organ damage. Blood trickled from the hole punched in his flat, smooth belly, but not much; most of the bleeding was internal. Somewhat more was leaking from the wound in his side; much more damage had been done there.

Holding the screwdriver in front of him, tip down, the buff, muscular alpha drove his arm downwards with the force of a piston. Aimed at Cody’s chest on the left side, below the heart, the rather blunt tip punched through the youth’s torso between the ribs and impaled the left lung before striking a rib in the back from the inside. The impact was hard enough to break the rib, but it took the momentum out of the blow and the screwdriver stopped with its tip lodged deeply in Cody’s rhomboid muscle.

As Cody’s young, tender body plumbed new depths of hell, the defenseless young homo could only look up at the testosterone-oozing stud looming over him. Even in his agony, Cody knew that his cock was pulsing and slapping against the top’s furry belly with each brutal thrust of the older man’s hips. It was too much for his shattered mind to take; the shallow cunt retreated to his love of shiny things and fixated on the thick links of Carlos’s gold chain, subconsciously trying to hypnotize himself out of his waking nightmare and failing spectacularly.

Carlos could feel the manseed start to bubble over in his balls as the slender youth shuddered and trembled beneath him. The kid was clearly in respiratory distress; his punctured lung was collapsing and the fucker was gurgling and gasping for air, a faint blue tinge forming on his swollen, split lips.

Cody’s consciousness was starting to fade; the fit but lean young fuckmeat had endured too much trauma. Things were going gray and numb around the edges. He could still feel the half-inch-thick shank of stainless steel embedded in his chest, just below his heart, and he could still feel the two-inch thick shaft of solid pulsing manflesh stuffed in his guts—but the icy darkness promised that soon he’d feel nothing, and he was grateful.

He made the mistake of letting it show on his face.

Carlos was an experienced killer. He knew the meat was trying to relax into unconsciousness; an attempt to escape the excruciating pain and ease into death. He wasn’t having that.

Leaning forward, the cruel alpha yanked the screwdriver out of Cody’s heaving chest, holding the gore-streaked shaft in front of the boy’s taut, pale face. “Know what I’m gonna do? I’m gonna shove this into yer head. I’m gonna fuck yer brain to hamburger with it. You’re gonna kick and convulse as ya die and yer fuckhole is gonna work my dick so good. And if I shank the right part of yer worthless homo brain, ya might even cum yourself, ya fuckin’ pervert.”

Reaching up to grab a hank of the kid’s sweat-soaked blond hair to hold his thrashing head in place, Carlos brought the screwdriver up and—so that the meat would know what was coming—slowly and gently inserted the large blunt tip of the steel tool into the punk’s left ear.

Cody gazed up, completely and utterly helpless, his eyes wide with horror as the realization of what was about to happen to him sank in. As the ruthless, brutally handsome alpha loomed over him, he tried again to focus on the gold links, on anything to take his mind off that pressure in his ear—

—then Carlos wrapped his large, strong hand around Cody’s jaw, crushing in in a vise-like grip and began to shove on the screwdriver.

Then next two minutes were both the worst and the last of Cody’s life.

Even with his jaw clamped shut by Carlos’s iron grasp, the volume of the shrill shrieks the trapped boymeat emitted were a good indication of the mind-bending agony he was enduring as the half-inch-wide metal tip tore through his eardrum and ground its way through his middle ear.

As promised, the excruciating pain made the slim youth flail and shudder, his hands slapping vainly against Carlos’s hairy chest. His legs, spread wide apart with the alpha’s muscle-bound form between them, could only kick at the air, his bare toes curling each time Carlos went balls-deep in his ass. Then the blade of the screwdriver punched through to the inner ear and slashed through the cochlea and the semi-circular canals, destroying the unfortunate fag’s balance mechanism.

Instantly, Cody’s screaming nightmare of suffering was intensified by a sickening, unbearable vertigo. Instinctively, he clutched at the only solid, stable thing in his shrunken universe—his killer. His hands reached up and clutched the stud’s sweating, bulging biceps; his legs wrapped around the alpha’s heaving, thrusting waist. Then the screwdriver penetrated past the ear structure with a loud, sickening crunching sound and dug its way into the soft gray matter filling the punk’s skull. “Fucking piece a’ meat, die on my fuckin’ cock!” Carlos barked and reamed the steel shank into the dying boy’s cranium.

Cody stiffened with the onset of massive brain damage, his lithe, lean, sweat-slicked body going rigid as his eyes rolled back in his head, nothing but blood-streaked white showing beneath fluttering lids ringed with long dark lashes. Carlos ground the screwdriver around in large circles, carving out large trails of carnage in the kid’s cerebellum—then one swipe of the steel tip slashed through the pleasure center of the young fag’s brain.

In some deep dark corner, the last spark of Cody’s personality screamed in orgasmic agony as his firm slender form convulsed violently. Carlos held on, grunting in intense pleasure as the meat’s rectum gripped his swollen cock and massaged it in rhythmic spasms. Simultaneously, the cunt’s rod, pressed against Carlos’s furry ripped abs, pulsed and squirmed.

There wasn’t enough left of Cody to hear his killer or feel the load pumped into him; the last sensation the nearly-dead homo was able to feel was his own geyser of spunk. It arose in an agonizing stream, splashing all over Carlos in a continuous flow, unnaturally drawn out due to brain trauma. The last thing Cody felt was an almost electric pain in his engorged cock as his life drained out of it, all over the hard body of his killer.

As a last act of contempt towards the fagmeat, Carlos slammed the screwdriver into the corpse’s head as hard as he could and left it with the tip embedded in the cranium on the inside. Gasping for air, his muscled chest heaving and matted with sweat and cum, Carlos pulled his still-dripping cock out of the dead meat and stood at the foot of the bed, looking down at the mess he’d left.

Cody lay sprawled out on his back on the bare mattress, his abused and violated young body still quivering in its death throes. There was a small pool of blood at the flank and another at the side of the head, under the ear from which the handle of the screwdriver still protruded. Even in death, his bare toes were curling and relaxing convulsively.

Carlos sneered. “Dead piece of faggot shit,” he muttered as pearly drops of cum continued to ooze from his own mushroom tip. Impulsively, he bent down, grabbed Cody’s arm, and dragged the corpse off the bed, through the apartment and out onto the patio, leaving a trail blood streaked behind him.

Once on the patio, he lifted the body over the railing and tossed it into the half-full dumpster, where it landed with a loud thump. It was still visible when Carlos glanced in; it had landed face-down. With a vague interest, the killer noticed a white spot on the small of the kid’s back, just above the tramp stamp—a playing card had been plastered there by sweat. It was the ace of spades.

Turning back to the apartment, Carlos stepped into the bathroom to clean up. It was small and filthy, but he was able to soak a towel with warm water at the sink. He wiped the sweat and cum off his chest; then, glancing closely in the mirror, noticed that the little fucker had managed to shoot jizz onto his gold chain. Smirking with pleasure at the memory, he cleaned the chain off as well. He didn’t notice the playing card that had been stuck to his own body till it fell off and fluttered to the floor, landing face-up—his was the king of clubs.

Tucking his enormous dick back into his jeans, Carlos swiftly left the apartment. He left behind his shirt, draped over a pair of Cody’s workboots. He didn’t want it anymore—and anyway, his body fur was still wet. He planned to air dry it by leaving the top down on the way home.

“Hey, Schweitz, what’s the story on that 187 ya had this morning?”

“That homicide out in Paradise, by the airport? That ain’t mine, that’s Nuñez’s.”

“Yeah, fine, but Nuñez is out and I ain’t got a report on it yet. Just gimme the basics.”

“Sure, Captain, but there ain’t nothin’ to it. Patrol car got called in after a neighbor found the body in a dumpster. Responding officers saw the blood trail on the patio next to the dumpster and called us in before they forced entry to the unit. There was blood on the bed and someone had cleaned up in the bathroom, but we didn’t find any other physical evidence.”

“Did ya call the crime scene techs out?”

“Naw. Why bother? M.E. was there—said the vic had been raped before he was stabbed to death. We asked the neighbor; turns out it was just another faggot who took the wrong trick home. Neighbor said there’s pansies in and outta that place all the time. He did remember a Mercedes convertible parked near the unit last night, though—want me to tell Nuñez to follow up on that?”

“No—like ya said, don’t bother. Waste of resources. We had two tourists robbed and shot on Tropicana two hours ago—check it out and take Nuñez with you.”

“And the fag?”

“Forget it. Don’t worry about filing a report—not like a real human being was involved, anyway. Go find out if those tourists are out of surgery yet—I will want a report on that one.”

The kid’s in his late teens, I think. He’s walking away from me, so it’s kinda hard to tell. I’d spotted him instantly; the guilty way he’d looked around before stepping into the dark alley was much more obvious than the little shit thought it had been. He wasn’t in there long—it was empty. I knew that because I’d already scouted it myself.

I was out on the hunt again. It’s been a while; I had to clean house after my last kill. That’s too cumbersome—I got a different place now for a killing pit. For transport, I got another van. I didn’t bother to carper the back; I laid down Astroturf.

I can take it out and hose it down.

I’ve been trolling the street for meat; there’s not much out. It was a rainy day, but the clouds cleared at sunset. For some reason, the rentboys stayed inside, so I decided I need to look elsewhere.

Which led me here—lotta drug traffic on this block, at times, but not tonight. There’d been a raid here two days ago; it had been on the news. It was a chance, but it paid off. Some stupid white kid in from the suburbs, looking to get high. Poor little fucker, he’s gonna get in trouble wandering around this neighborhood this time of night…

Maybe I can help him.

He’s wearing skinny jeans that cradle his firm ass and cling to his legs all the way down to his red and white Air Jordans. Above the waist, he’s got on a red hoodie and—oddly enough—a red ball cap. His hair is russet brown; I can tell by the sideburns that slope down to a thin line of facial hair that runs along the jaw line and that the punk evidently thinks is a beard.

Little boy pretending to be a man. The aching stiffness in my groin makes me shift in my seat; my feet, tightly laced into black combat boots, shuffle eagerly on the floor. I’m parked near the corner; starting the van, I swiftly pull up to him. He turns to me, startled, his youthful face openly suspicious in a way that seemed to emphasize his true innocence.

After all, if he knew what I had planned for him, he wouldn’t be suspicious; he’d be terrified.

“You, uh, lookin’?” I ask him with a knowing leer. “Whatcha want?”

Again, the kid glances furtively up and down the street before giving me the hairy eyeball.

“You a cop?” he asks.

“No, I ain’t a cop,” I replied.

“Cause I heard if you’re a cop and you get asked, you can’t lie,” he came back.

“Fuck, dude, I ain’t a cop,” I snapped. “Ya want anything or not?”

Suddenly, he blushed and grinned. “Sorry, man, I just—well, anyway, yeah. I, uh, I was just hopin’ to score some weed and some coke. Say, a half and a couple of eightballs?”

I grin at him. “I got ya covered, dude. Climb in.” He hesitates, of course; he’s a stupid little fuck but he does have basic survival skills. Let’s see how basic.

“C’mon, man, I ain’t got all night. You don’t think I’m ridin’ dirty, do ya? I don’t do my business out in the street. I gotta place around the corner where you can get a little sample.”

The kid is clearly a newbie at this. He actually falls for it; I’d expected a bit more of an argument. When he opens the door, I can see by the dome light that his eyes are a dark hazel brown. His smooth cheeks are lightly sprinkled with freckles and despite the thin line of fur on his jawline, I can see the dimple in his chin.

He climbs into the passenger seat and closes the door. “We, uh, we gotta go far?” he asks, fastening the seatbelt.

“It’s just around the corner,” I reply, “No more than five minutes. There’s a jay in the ashtray if ya wanna hit; it’s the same shit I’m sellin’.”

The boy snatched it up, digging a lighter out of his pocket. His jeans are so tight, I can recognize the oblong shape of a pack of cigarettes still there. He lit it and inhaled deeply, leaning back in the seat.

“You haven’t asked my prices,” I commented dryly.

The punk exhaled, filling the air with sweet smoke; I cracked the windows. “As long as it’s reasonable, man. Name’s Toby. My bro Ernie’s gettin’ married this weekend—poor dickwad knocked that cunt Amy up, so he’s gotta marry her. Asshole—he’s only a coupla months younger than me and now his life is all fucked up at age eighteen. Anyway, we’re gonna give him one fuckuva sendoff with a kick-ass bachelor party.”

“So you’re in charge of gettin’ party supplies?” I ask, like I give a shit. I’m gearing up to make a move I’ve been practicing for a while.

Toby takes another lung-busting hit off the joint. This time, he at least has the presence of mind to exhale out the window; I don’t want the cab of my van reeking of weed. “Some of ‘em,” he says slowly. He turns languidly to me, his eyes red. He’s stoned as fuck and I didn’t even lace this one. “See, Chuck’s over 21, so he’s gettin’ th’ booze, an’ Dan’s gettin’ th’ pussy an’ Arnie’s lettin’ us use his basement—”

A line drive blow straight out from the left shoulder isn’t an easy move to perfect, and I don’t claim to have done so, especially given the results. I put out the kid’s lights with a hefty, satisfying smack to the jaw; but in the end I should have pulled the punch a little. Motherfucker went into the passenger window so hard he broke it.

I put the still-smoldering joint out in the ashtray and headed west.

I’d found this place some time ago, but I had to scope it out a while to make sure it was as isolated as it seemed. A large warehouse property, it was the abandoned distribution center of a grocery chain that had withdrawn from the region over a decade before. Technically for sale, the site was full of loading bays and storage areas that had become the hangouts of local gangs and the homeless.

One end of the massive building was left utterly deserted, though, and by its very nature could be sealed off and made soundproof. It was a complex of industrial freezers at the north end of the structure; it was deserted to the point that it even lacked graffiti tags.

I switched off the lights as I pulled onto the property, driving around the back to the small loading bay on the north end. It was little used as well and was a perfect place to conceal the van. I only had to drag the unconscious meat a few dozen yards into the small freezer space I’d located and “decorated”.

It was no more than two hundred square feet; I have no idea what the original purpose was. I strung up some lights, with a battery generator. It’s an emergency power backup device, but it’ll work for my purposes. Except for the ceiling, every surface of the room is covered with painter’s plastic—makes for easy clean-up. Down the center of the ceiling runs a line of meat hooks.

In one corner is a folded, oversized TV tray, next to a small tool chest; as the name implies, I use the latter for my tools. Dumping the boymeat on the metal-lined floor, I open the chest and retrieve a zip-tie. Returning to the limp sack of boyflesh, I swiftly pull his hoodie—and the t-shirt he had on under—off over his head. Leaving his jeans on, I bind the cunt’s hands in front of him.

Then I lift him up, slipping the plastic tie over the meat hook. It’s perfect. He dangles from his arms, the toes of his b-ball kicks swaying four inches above the metal floor.

And his ass is right at the level of my crotch.

His hat had fallen off in the van when he broke the window with his punk-ass head—stupid motherfucker. His red-brown hair is short and wavy, somewhat matted with blood on the right side—the impact had broken the skin, but not badly. He’s gonna suffer a lot more damage than that over the next hour.

Suddenly, he twitches and gives an almost inaudible moan. His long eyelashes flutter; he’s starting to wake up. I need to get into position.

I’d already removed my jacket and t-shirt outside the freezer. My skin-tight jeans are tucked into my combat boots; I don’t wanna take them off. And it doesn’t matter; this pair is old and stained with paint and grease, the denim worn thin in places. They’re garbage. Doesn’t matter if they get a few more stains.

I stand in front of the hanging fucktoy, my boots spread wide. Reaching down and unzipping my fly, I hauled out my thick, pulsing hog, letting it dangle, semi-hard, between my legs. I wait with my arms crossed across my hairy, muscled chest; I’ll be the first thing the little fuckwad sees when he wakes—which he does, almost immediately.

He groans loudly and my cock stiffens slightly. His eyes open, but they’re rolled back. He gurgles and chokes on his tongue momentarily, then jerks violently—and regains consciousness.

He looks at me, his eyes wide. He’s confused and in pain. “Wha…wha…”

I grin and fondle my cock. He looks at me, then glances down at my groin. His eyes widen. “Dude, wh-what the fuck?” he quavers. His eyes are bloodshot; he’s still high. That’s ok; I’ll sober him up soon enough.

Silently, I step forward and begin fondling him. He grunts and kicks wildly as I reach out and grab the crotch of his jeans, massaging the thick tube of flesh that even now seems to be getting a little hard. “Get the fuck offa me, man; I ain’t no faggot!” he yells in angry denial. Ignoring him, I run my hands up his smooth, firm chest. His pecs and trapezius muscles were painfully elongated, causing his small dark nipples to thrust upwards.

He shudders under my hands. “Jesus fuckin’ Christ, I got snatched by a fuckin’ pervert,” he snarls as I run my fingers through the wiry hair in his pits. He’s already starting to sweat, not just from anxiety, but from the sheer physical stress of hanging by his arms. “Lemme down!” he squawks.

I let go and step back, still grinning, still silent, before turning back to the tool chest. “Ya hear me, motherfucker?!” the cunt shouts. “Get back here, asswipe! Get me down from here!”

Having retrieved what I want, I wheel back to him. “That’s it, buddy,” he calls, “now get over here and—”

That was when he glanced down and saw that I was holding a knife. He shut up quick. Suddenly, he seemed to have a lot less desire to have me approach him. Not that his desires matter; it’s mine that are gonna get satisfied tonight. I need to let him know that—but first, I want him nude. Walking behind him, I reach down and grab the Air Jordan shoe on his left foot. I grip it tightly, expecting him to kick, but he doesn’t—he’s too intimidated.

Again, I don’t say a word. I insert the tip of the knife blade under the cuff of his jeans, above the left shoe, and slice upward, slitting the fabric cleanly up the back of his leg. I keep going up to the waistband and cut through it, rapidly sawing through his belt. It’s a Ka-Bar Bowie with a nine-inch serrated blade; it went through the inch of thin leather like it was paper. Another slice up the other leg and the slut hung there, nude but for his kicks.

I walk back around to the front. His large hazel eyes watch me anxiously. I’m actually kinda impressed; he’s clearly a lower-middle-class teenaged punk—I’d’ve thought he’d already be crying and pleading to be let go. Well, I can change that soon enough.

I need a staging area—I grab the TV tray and, setting it up, lay the knife on it. Then I return to the tool chest. The tray is positioned so that the boycunt can see it clearly, but just enough out of reach if he starts to kick.

I think he’s gonna kick. Especially once I turn back with the item out I got out of the chest.

I hold it up to him; it glints in the light. He looks at it, his long-lased eyes blinking slowly, like a cow’s. He doesn’t get it—so I help him get it.

“It’s a staple gun,” I say. It’s the first thing I’ve said since he’s regained consciousness; his eyes immediately snap to mine. “I’m gonna hurt you with it.”

His face pales, making his freckles stand out. He’s more confused than ever, so I help him out. I step forward and, placing the staple gun against his firm, flat belly. “Like this,” I say helpfully, and squeeze the handle.

With a loud “chunk”, the device slams an inch-long roofing staple through the kid’s smooth skin. I was right about making the bitch kick; he squeals in pain and flails his legs. The only sign of exterior damage, though, is the barely-visible glint of metal on the fucker’s heaving belly, from the ends of which two tiny trickles of blood leaked.

“Ya see, boy, I’m gonna rape yer ass,” I drawl casually. The hanging boyfuck stops whimpering and gasps, but I keep on going. “But a worthless little sack of shit like you—yer ass ain’t gonna get me off, bitch. And I need to get off, bad.”

I leer cruelly at him; his brown eyes are huge as he stares at me in disbelief. “Ya know what will get me off? Making you hurt. Before I fuck you and as I fuck you, I’m gonna hurt you. I’m gonna fuck you up so goddam bad. But ya know what the best part of all this is?”

He’s breathing deeply, but he flinches as I lean in close to his youthful, innocent face. I want him to hear me as I whisper, “The best part is that yer gonna get off too. I’m gonna put you in so much agony that yer gonna cum—and if ya don’t think I can do that, then ya better buckle up, cause I’m gonna prove it to ya, startin’ now!”

Balling up my fist, I slam it into the teen’s abs, a swift and powerful gutpunch directly on top of the staple.

The meat’s eyes and mouth both open wide, the latter a perfect O of shock and pain. The breath rushes out of his lungs with a loud gurgling grunt as his lean form twists and kicks vainly in the air. His red Air Jordans flail uselessly several inches above the ground as his long, thick hog slaps audibly against his smooth thighs. I reach out and grab his cock, nimbly avoiding his jerking legs. I stroke the teen’s meat as I swing the staple gun up and drive a pair of sharp metal prongs into his having flank.

He thrashes and squeals again—but there’s a reaction in his dick, too. It was faint, but I could feel the punk’s semi-soft trouser snake throb slightly as he twisted in pain.

I knew it. Moment I laid eyes on him, I knew the little fuck was into pain. They all are, really, even the stupid little shits like this one who try to pretend they’re straight. They’re just waiting for a real man to come along and dominate them. And after all, what’s the ultimate show of power? Making the victim suffer and die. That’s what they want, what they crave in their sick souls—they wanna suffer and die.

I’m more than happy to oblige, of course. I let the meat know.

“Ya like that shit, dontcha, faggot?” I sneer. “Toldja so—yer dick is gettin’ hard in my hand. Fuck, cunt, yer gonna love what I’m gonna do to ya—it’s yer lucky motherfuckin’ night!” Raising the staple gun to his chest, I slam one into the center of his stretched-out pecs. Each time the thin metal points pierce his skin, he yelps in pain.

I step back for a moment to consider my next target. That’s when he finally starts pleading. “Stop it, man, please,” he sobs, his voice cracking with fear and distress, “Please, please, I’ll do anything ya want, just stop hurting me…”

“Will you?” I ask, grinning. “Really? Anything I want?” Bending down, I pop a staple into the silky-smooth flesh of his inner thigh. He shrieks. “And what if I just wanna keep hurting you? What if I just want you to keep hanging there like a good piece of fuckmeat while I torture you to death?”

Tears are streaming down his young, freckled-filled face; they dampen and darken the narrow line of fuzz that the punk pretends is a beard. His long-lashed eyes are closed, though; he can’t bring himself to look me in the face. “Y-you can fuck me…” he whispers so reluctantly it’s almost inaudible. “I-I swear, ma-man, I won’t tell no one, if you’ll j-just lemme go…”

As I return to the tool box and get another toy, he breaks down and starts sobbing. “P-please don’t k-kill me,” he gasps out between tears, “I prom-promise I w-won’t tell any-anyone about this—”

The sight of me and my toy cuts him off violently—it’s a set of brass knuckles. I start with a line drive straight form my shoulder to right side of his chest; I can feel that the impact of my fist, amplified by heavy metal, is strong enough to shatter a couple of ribs, expelling a violent grunt of pain from the kid.

The meat stops crying and stares at me, his face darkening as he struggles to breathe. I’ve knocked the air outta him and with those broken ribs, it’s gotta hurt to inhale. He will eventually, of course; he has to. As he struggles painfully in mid-air I stand and grin at him, holding up the brass knuckles for him to admire.

“Yeah, meat, bet that one got ya all horny, huh? Hell fuckin’ yeah, boy, there’s a lot more where that came from. And this is just foreplay, bitch; you ain’t suffered near enough to even get my dick hard yet, let alone to make me cum once I’m buried balls-deep in yer ass. If yer a religious type, ya need to be thankin’ Jeebus for thowin’ you in my path, cause I’m gonna purge you with pain and fuck you into eternity on a violent, agonizing sea of cum!”

He loses it; shrieking and kicking, he thrashes like a wild man. I knew this point would come—this is why (and where) they need tenderizing. Managing to keep away from his flailing legs, I rain blow after blow on his lithe, nude, twisting body. I’m punching him hard enough to do internal damage; even as he screams in panic, he has to grunt in pain as the physical pain overrides the mental terror while I pound his smooth, wiry abdomen. I snap another rib on his right side; I’m amazed that I haven’t punctured his lung yet.

He’s young and strong; his panic is powerful. Body blows aren’t getting his attention. I focus on his face.

The first blow snaps a cheekbone; the second crushed his nose. I can feel the cartilage crunch under my fist. It works; he quiets down and simply dangles there, whimpering and sobbing softly. I still want to smash his beautiful young face to hamburger and have to restrain myself from shattering his jaw. But I’m still a long ways form being done with him, and I still wanna hear him bleat and squeal.

“That’s it,” I tell him, “Now you’re startin’ to get it. You’re just gonna hang there and accept whatever I do to you. You’re nothing but fuckmeat, strung up in a meat locker and ready for butcherin’. Ya feel me, boy? Ya get what I’m sayin? Here and now, I own yer ass and I’m gonna do what I wanna with you. As of now, your only purpose on this planet is to make me cum—and the only way you’re gonna do that is to suffer. How long you live depends on how much you can endure, but know this—the rest of your short, worthless life is gonna be nothing but horrific, nightmarish pain—and my cock. These will be the only two things in your universe for the rest of your life.”

I reset the tray within easy reach as I step behind the kid. At the height he’s hanging, his ass is perfectly lined up at my groin; I don’t need to adjust anything at all. My cock is full erect by now; the swollen purple head is glistening with precum. It’s all the lube the boycunt is gonna get.

I probe his fuckhole with my shaft, feeling the tight resistance of his sphincter against my firm mushroom tip. Oh fuck yeah, this meat’s deep in the closet; no one’s been up here yet.

“Savin’ yerself for me, huh?” I whisper in his ear as I reach around his slim, slick torso and pull him close. I can smell his rank, fear-laden boysweat, thick with adolescent pheromones as I press my muscled chest to his back and slowly tear apart his straining ass muscle, penetrating the sobbing youth remorselessly. “Ain’t gonna help ya, bitch; it’s only gonna make this hurt so much worse. But I fuckin’ love rippin’ virgin boycunts open, faggot; this is gonna be yer first, last and best assfuck ever.”

He screams as I give a sudden violent thrust; my shaft scrapes against his rectal lining, causing an excruciating internal tear, before my long, vein-wrapped rod plows into his prostate.

Slipping my other hand around to the punk’s crotch, I find that the prostate impact has had its usual result; the fuckmeat’s cock is hard as a rock. It’s an almost involuntary reaction to a nice internal prostate massage. The head of my dick keeps traveling deep into the boy’s velvety guts, but as long as the throbbing length of my shaft presses against that gland, I can keep the meat erect, no matter what I do to him.

He still doesn’t like it, though. He hasn’t accepted his rightful place on my cock; he squeals like a pig and clenches his arms. His biceps and triceps aren’t huge, but I can see them bulge as the teen punk tries desperately to raise himself up off the impaling shaft of my dick.

“Aw, no, cunt,” I bark, “Where ya tryin’ to run to? Ain’t no way you’re gettin’ off my cock, ya stupid sack a’ shit—this is where yer gonna die. Get used to ridin’ my rod, motherfucker, yer gonna be doin’ it for the rest of yer suck-ass life!”

He snaps. The terror and the agony are too much for him. “No!” he screams. “Lemme down! Get offa me! Get the fuck outta me, asshole! Get the—URK!”

As he yelled, I reached down, snatched the Ka-Bar, and rammed it into his flank on the right-hand side. He chokes on his shout as the pain overwhelms him, but I’ve been kind. I didn’t sink all nine inches of the blade into his lean, lithe abdomen; I only sank the carbon-steel knife in to a depth of five inches.

All I did was slash open his intestines and maybe pierce his spleen. Theoretically survivable, if he gets help in time.

He won’t get help in time.

But he’s still a long way from death. The teenaged punk is alive and kicking—and responding to the pain. “Oh yeah, that’s it, fuckmeat,” I whisper in his ear, letting him know what a real man’s beard feels like, scratching his cheek as I lean forward to taunt him. “Yer guts tighten up around my cock so fuckin’ good when I stick ya. Fuckin’ deathpig—all you hot little twinks, huh? Just waitin’ for the right man to come along, stuff ya fulla dick and put ya down like the garbage ya are, huh? You’re such a lucky cumdump—tonight yer gonna get it, ya hear?” I jerk the blade back out, quickly, and hold it up in front of his face as he shrieks and his taut, lean body shudders in my arms. “Lucky little deathpig is gonna get pumped fulla long lard manshaft and long hard manshank—I wonder which one is gonna make you cum hardest, huh?”

He gasps and kicks, the heels of his b-ball kick drumming into my shins; it’s annoying as fuck. “Calm down, meat,” I hiss and flip the blade around, driving it deep into his belly. “HOOG!” he yells, adding to his repertoire of inarticulate cries. Again, I don’t shove it in up to the hilt—this time, more outta self-preservation. If I’d stuck it all the way in, it’d have come out his back and stuck me.

Which isn’t to say it won’t get shoved into the tender young boyflesh up to the hilt at some point; just not yet. After all, I haven’t hit anything vital yet. I can still play with the teen meat for a while yet.

And besides, it feel so good on my engorged tubesteak. His warm, satin-smooth colon wraps around my cock and squeezes like a hand every time I stick the blade in…

…it’s almost like his ass is responding to him getting fucked by the blade.

Oh, this really is a sick little pervert. Teenaged deathpig out lookin’ for party supplies—ha! He’s havin’ the party of his fuckin’ life now. Bet the faggot ain’t high no more.

Well, maybe he’s high on life—what little he’s got left.

I yank the blade back up, again holding it upright in front of his face. “Look at it, meat,” I whisper, nuzzling his shuddering head again. “See those pink bits dangling from the serrations on the blade? That’s your guts, bitch. That’s what yer insides look like.”

Little piece of shit is trying to establish an emotional connection by telling me his name. “Meat doesn’t have a name, asswipe,” I remind him. To drive the point home, I stick him again, this time on the left side.

He bleats like a dying lamb. Helplessly impaled on my cock, he thrashes vainly as I twist the knife in the wound, grinding a massive hole in his liver. Not enough to make him bleed out, but enough to make the cunt go rigid with shock from major organ trauma.

“What’s yer name, meat?” I hiss, reaming the blade in his side as he rides my cock. “What’s yer fuckin’ name, huh?”

He gasps and grunts, but doesn’t answer.

“Yeah, I thought so,” I jeer. “You’re nothing but a sack of boymeat. You’re only here to suffer so I can cum. You’re gonna drain my cock and die, you worthless fucker. I’m gonna use you as my personal cumrag and throw you out after like the garbage you are, you got it? Yeah? You got yer place in the general scheme of things now, deathpig?”

The boy trembles and sobs, a low whimpering sound, as I run my hands down his chest. I’ve left the blade in the wound; it bobs back and forth as I continue to pound the punk’s asshole. I hold him to me, his back pressed against my chest, the slick boysweat forced from his young body matting the fur on my thick, broad pecs. My nipples get hard as he writhes against me, his smooth skin slipping over them as if lubed.

And all the time, he’s working my cock.

Poor boy, he’s in so much agony. He leans his head back as I fuck him mercilessly so I can see his pain-wracked face, taut and gray with shock. His thin line of facial fur tangles in my scruff and he inadvertently nuzzles my cheek as he begs.

“You ain’t made me cum yet, cunt,” I murmur in his ear. “You don’t stop sufferin’ until I’ve emptied my load in yer guts—ya feel me, cumdump?” I prod him in the back with the blade—not badly; I only sink the blade in a couple of inches. He stiffens and gasps.

“Yeah, that’s it,” I tell him, “That’s what I’m looking for. See what I mean, bitch? Every time I stick ya, yer ass gets all nice and tight. So I gotta keep pokin’ ya till I blow my load. If ya live long enough, I’ll make you cum too. It’ll hurt like all fuck, bro, but I promise you—you’ll never shoot a bigger wad in yer life!”

He keeps struggling, his slender body thrashing against mine as his Air Jordan hightop kick futilely at my shins. He’s jerking his arms, his delts and triceps bulging pitifully as he desperately tries to pull himself up off my thick, throbbing shaft.

The tortured, abused teen moans in despair. His lithe, lean body slips and slides along mine as he still vainly tries to release himself from the horrible impaling pain of his virgin buttfuck. Fuckin’ idiot, he still doesn’t get it—but he reacts so well to pain.

I wrap one hand around him, sliding it up his blood-smeared chest to his mouth. I can feel his lips working against my palm as he continues to beg and plead silently for his worthless life. “Fuckin’ teenaged meat,” I mutter contemptuously. “Always has to learn the hard way.” I ram the blade into his back, this time up to the hilt. It slashes on a downward angle though his lean, tender flesh like a carving knife through rare roast beef, ripping right through his kidney before it emerges from the lower right quadrant of his abdomen, just above the pelvis.

Once again, major organ trauma has a magical effect on the cumpunk’s asshole. Fuck, if they could control their colons this well voluntarily, I wouldn’t need to snuff them…

…well, no. Worthless painpig cumdump, they all need to die, preferably in horrible agony, with my dick up their asses. Like this one.

“Hey, cunt,” I whisper in his ear as he shudders violently and rigidly, his rectum squeezing my cock to tightly, I need a lot of self-control not to cum right now. “Yer gettin’ me close, boy. Think I’m gonna spunk soon. Gonna anoint yer worthless guts with my potent manseed, yeah? You ready, fuckmeat? You ready to feel my sperm ticklin’ yer innards? It’s almost time to make you into my personal cumrag. Gonna make you into meat, boy, gonna make you into fuckin’ meat!”

I lower my hand from his mouth to his dick. Of course it’s still hard; with my own enormous tool plugging his colon and pressing on his prostate, he physically can’t go soft. No matter how much pain and terror he’s experiencing, his seven-inch cock remains involuntarily erect and pulsing. As I slip my hand over the purple, spongy, engorged head, his precum smears over the palm.

I use it as lube while I jack his teen dick.

He responds, his body going rigid again, pressing back against me—whether in resistance or pleasure, I can’t tell, but he rides my shaft rhythmically, squeezing his sphincter as it slides along every vein-wrapped inch.

I beat his oozing tool, feeling his hard young body trembling in my arm as his ragged breathing speeds up. Bleeding and in excruciating pain, the meat is still so full of adolescent hormones that he’s leaking a steady stream of precum.

This is why I like ‘em young. Horny little fucker—even in mortal agony, he relaxes into my arms, letting me jack him off.

I don’t want him relaxed. I want him tight on my rod. He moans and stiffens slightly—not enough. He’s about to cum, but I ain’t quite there yet.

“Die, you worthless piece of faggot shit,” I snarl, and slam the Ka-bar knife horizontally through his throat.

It’s what he needs, what he wants. As the cold steel blade slashes through his larynx, he makes a high-pitched shriek, the death-squeal of a true pain pig. His body, already traumatized, goes into shock; his strong young muscles snap into a rigid rictus of agony.

His ass tightens like a cockring around my pulsating shaft. I can feel my balls boiling over, the hot strong squirts of my manseed flooding the dying teen’s rectum. “Aw fuck!” I yell and slice the knife forward, sawing my way out of the cunt’s throat from the inside, “Die, motherfucker, die!”

I’m holding the knife in one hand—I’m still beating him off with the other. As my blade rips open his throat, sending spurts of hot, coppery blood across the room, I can feel a massive spasm in his cock. He’s blowing his death load so fucking hard, I can see it shooting up like a pearly geyser over his shoulder. His steaming deathwad splatters back on my face as the teenager’s final convulsions clench my dick and his ass seems to literally suck my scrote dry.

I’m kinda out of it for a few minutes as I empty my pent-up load into the shuddering boycorpse still dangling by the hands and impaled on my dick. The quivering meat is soaked in agonized deathsweat, his russet hair dark and matted, individual beads of perspiration still trickling from his rank pits—just as pink, frothy blood leaks from his slashed throat and translucent beads of jizz are still dripping from his purple head. Even dead, he’s still leaking his bodily fluids.

Sighing deeply, I step back, my still-hard cock popping up as I pull out of the dead kid’s ass, spattering my oozing spunk everywhere. I use the boy’s t-shirt to wipe my dick off, then replaced all my toys back in the tool chest. Well, all the ones I’d taken out.

Getting myself dressed, I go out to my van—and drove home. I’m tired, I need sleep…and I want the meat to stop bleeding. I’ll come back for it tomorrow. Who know? I might not be done with it, if it ain’t too ripe when I get back.

And besides, I need to get the passenger window fixed. Stupid piece of fuckin’ meat, I was too easy on him. I shoulda really hurt ‘im…

When the light changed, Carlos eased off the brake and turned left off the Strip, heading east on Flamingo. Even though it was past one in the morning, the crowds on Las Vegas Boulevard had diminished only slightly; it took several minutes to complete the turn while he waited for the idiots who’d decided to cross against the signal.

Finally the way was clear; Carlos gunned the Benz. He’d gotten angry at the delay. Given that he was already bored and horny, it was a lethal combination.

Someone was gonna die tonight. Somewhere out there was a fag who was gonna soak up Carlos’s cum and die on his dick.

Nick was out of town. He’d had a sudden offer to film a straight snuff flick in Tahoe; he’d packed his equipment in his truck and driven up yesterday. Prior to that, though, they’d planned to go hunting this weekend. With Nick gone, Carlos had decided not to alter his plans.

So here he was, heading east on Flamingo. It was a pleasant night with the temperature in the mid-seventies, so the top was down on the bright red luxury car. Inside, the hard-bodied convict displayed his broad, sculpted chest and flat ripped abs in a leather vest with no shirt underneath; a thick gold chain sparkled alluringly around his muscular throat. His skin-tight black leather jeans were tucked into a pair of engineer boots.

And he’d found something while idly poking around the condo last night—likely left over from one of Nick’s earlier flicks. A pair of thin leather gloves that fit Carlos’s powerful hands like a black second skin. He was wearing them now, as his fingers gripped the steering wheel tightly.

He turned right off Flamingo into what had been a decent middle-class neighborhood. Now it was little more than a cluster of run-down cinderblock homes with dirt yards and questionable tenants. There was still some activity on the street, most of it furtive and probably criminal, but Carlos couldn’t spot anything worth fucking.

Heading further south before turning east again, the leather-clad predator found the streets less well-lit—and less-populated. After a couple of blocks, he no longer saw anyone at all, so he turned back towards Flamingo, fuming in frustration

That was when he saw the boy.

He had come to a stop at a stop sign. The kid was on the sidewalk, leaning against the sign itself. Late teens or early twenties—at the latest—the punk had a mane of sandy blond hair that came nearly to his shoulders. Completely bare-chested, the youth wore a pair of denim shorts that stopped just above the knee. On the feet were a shiny pair of black Adidas Originals X hightops. Otherwise, the boy’s smooth, muscular body was as visible as meat on a butcher’s counter.

It seemed an odd place to find a trick, but the moment the convertible Benz came to a halt, the punk stepped off the curb and approaching the car, reached in. “You can put it in my mouth for twenty or my ass for fifty,” he said, grabbing the enormous bulge in the crotch of Carlos’s leather jeans.

For a moment, the brutal sadist was actually surprised. Prey was hunted; it didn’t just wander into the killing pit on its own—but this one had.

“How much for the rest of the evening?” Carlos asked, knowing that the amount the boywhore named wouldn’t matter, since he wouldn’t be in a condition to collect it anyway.

The rentboy’s eyes opened wide with surprised greed; he clearly hadn’t expected an offer of this magnitude. The eyes in question were dark, dark brown, almost black, and the white were stained red as a result of drugs and/or alcohol. “Two-fifty and you can do what ya want till morning,” the slut responded, its breath confirming the at least the alcohol part of Carlos’s estimation. The killer chuckled inwardly—this was Vegas, for fuck’s sake; kid with a body like that coulda asked for at least double that.

Good. Ain’t no one was gonna miss a cheap fucking fag whore.

“Get in,” Carlos said gruffly. “I ain’t fuckin’ ya in public, cunt, I got class. My place is a coupla miles north.” Class had nothing to do with it; he was gonna destroy this cheap-ass hustler, and he didn’t want an audience while he worked the bitch over.

The rentboy obeyed, jumping into the passenger seat and buckling himself in. As Carlos stepped on the gas, he noticed the kid sizing him up with sidelong glances. He also noticed—he couldn’t help it, it was too obvious—that a tentpole was stretching the denim in faggot’s groin. Little cocksucker was horny himself. Carlos headed out.

They were inside the condo in less than twenty minutes. “Damn,” the meat said, looking around in awe, “This is some nice crib ya got, dawg. Name’s Kris, by the way—Kris with a K.”

Carlos ignored the cunt and headed to the bedroom in silence. He didn’t turn on the bedside lamp; instead, he opened the curtain on the picture window, allowing the bright neon of the Strip to reflect gaudily off the gold satin bedspread.

Kris staggered in, his booze- and meth-addled head reeling in the kaleidoscopic effect the spectacular view provided. “Goddam,” he muttered. His bleary eyes lit up; Carlos could almost see dollar signs in them like a cartoon character’s. The muscle-bound sadist chuckled. Wheeling around the kid, he locked the bedroom door behind him. Kris was still too stunned by his surroundings to notice.

The boywhore was attuned enough to hear the stealthy sound of a zipper, though. He turned and directed his entire attention on Carlos’s crotch as the tattooed stud extracted the full length of his horse-like dick from the confines of his tight leather jeans. The glistening tube of meat fell out and slapped against the alpha’s thigh, throbbing and swelling as it bobbed in the air.

Kris gasped. The whore had seen lots of cocks, but had never come across one quite this large. Even as he watched beads of precum well up on the pulsing purple tip, he could feel his own boyjuice start to trickle from his straining, aching shaft. Instinctively, he reached down and grabbed the bulge in his groin. He gave his tight waist a quick jerk and his denim shorts slid to the floor. Stepping out of them, Kris grabbed his cock and stood fondling it in nothing but his shiny black Adidas hightops.

Kris staggered across the room towards Carlos. He liked being used, and he was high enough to let anyone use him, but the combination of lust for this dominant hunk and chemical confusion led him to ignore any red flags—like the tattoos. Despite his age—he was a couple of months shy of his twenty-first birthday, not even old enough yet to buy beer legally—he was no stranger to crime or convicts. He knew the meaning of some of Carlos’s inks—and recognized the amateurish nature of others that indicated a prison origin.

It didn’t matter. The dude had the body of a god. And he was gonna pay him enough to stay high for three days straight, maybe more. Maybe, if he played his cards right, this guy could become a regular customer—fuck, lookit this place, he must be fuckin’ loaded…

“Suck my cock, faggot!” Carlos snapped, cutting through Kris’s reverie. Before he could respond appropriately, Kris found that he couldn’t respond at all—Carlos had literally taken matters into his own hands by grabbing thick fistfuls of Kris’s hair and jerking the rentboy’s head forward until it was forced down onto the ex-con’s dick.

The well-used whore found his eyes watering as the massive flesh tube was thrust inexorably past his tonsils, the thick mushroom tip slipping into his esophagus on a lube of spit and precum. The young homo was an experienced cocksucker; he knew how to control his breathing while sucking a pulsing, vein-wrapped hog down his throat—but this was manmeat of a different magnitude.

And Kris realized it once Carlos’s tool slid over his epiglottis and sealed of his airway. Suddenly, he couldn’t breathe at all.

“Fuck, dude, is that all of me you can take?” Carlos sneered, “Whadda lousy cocksucker! Shit, whore, ya gotta do a lot better than that if ya wanna get paid—now swallow my fuckin’ dick, you worthless homo slut!”

Kris’s hand’s reached out in from of him, looking for support, something to brace himself, as Carlos’s grip intensified and he plunged his iron-hard shaft further down the boy’s throat. The hard-bodied alpha began to throatfuck the punk, but never drew his shaft out far enough for Kris to take a breath.

The helpless rentboy was too drunk and too high to fully understand what was happening; he just knew he couldn’t breathe. His hands had finally made contact with the smooth, pumping firmness of Carlos’s leather-clad thighs, but no matter how hard he pushed back, all he seemed likely to do was tear open his scalp where the vicious sociopath still held a tight grip.

As the young faggot whore jerked and writhed under him, Carlos closed his eyes and sighed with pleasure. “Choke on it, cocksucker, choke on my cock, you worthless motherfucker! That’s it, work my load out, bitch—take this one and if yer lucky, I’ll give ya another!”

Kris heard him. His response was divided; his logical mind ignored the words and kept beating against those strong, thrusting thighs, wrapped in black leather, while his unconscious absorbed the full meaning, causing the slim but well-built young pansy’s own cock to swell painfully.

The kneeling slut could hear his pulse pounding in his head; the rapid, frenetic tempo seemed to match the speed at which the cruel, leering top was facefucking him. His chest seemed to balloon up, swelling in agony as froth spilled from both nostrils. Kris could feel his eyes bulge; his sight went dim and his panicked struggles slowed and became more rhythmic.

Just as Kris’s consciousness started to fade, the powerful convict, still holding him in an inescapable grip, began to shudder and grunt uncontrollably. Even on the verge of asphyxia, the experience cumsucker knew an incipient orgasm; if he could only hold on a little longer…there!

The young faggot felt the thick, wide base of the alpha’s cock pulse as it pumped a solid stream of cum down his throat. Kris had no choice but to swallow; he was literally just trying to stay conscious as the muscled stud unloaded a massive amount of spunk, jets of hot creamy sperm shooting into his belly as the huge shaft of manmeat continued to throb and pump.

Kris felt like he was drowning in cum. His burning, heaving lungs seemed to be filling up with manseed as the brutally aggressive top emptied his massive, puckered balls. Suddenly, the hot dude let go and Kris fell back into a huddled heap on the floor. He gasped, choked, and coughed up an enormous wad of cum. It dribbled down his chin as he panted and drooled, trying to regain his breath.

Finally, the shaken and cowed boywhore turned his paradoxically innocent face up to that of his assailant, his dark eyes wide with shock. The well-endowed ex-con towered over him, his monstrous cock jutting out from the black leather darkness of his crotch. Above, even in the semi-darkness, Kris could trace the amateur tattoos inked on the killer’s rippled abs and broad, sculpted chest, even under the latter’s body fur and leather vest.

The faint glitter of the gold chain was visible around the thick, bull-like neck. And above that, the handsome, chiseled face—despite the trauma he’d just endured, Kris could feel his own shaft stiffen as he gazed on the john’s wiry black goatee and stared into those blue eyes, flinty with a cold rage. The incredible stud wore a do-rag on his head; it seems to be shiny black satin. In the back of his head, Kris wondered if this hot, scary-ass fucker was shaved like a skinhead…

Then the hard, cruel face broke into an open sneer. “Don’t get comfortable, faggot,” Carlos snarled, “There’s a fuck of a lot more where that came from. I got another load already churnin’ in my scrote, bitch.”

The words snapped the slut out of his reverie. The meth he’d smoked and the Colt 45’s he’d drunk had dimmed his sense of danger, but not his sense of business. Sadly for him, it led him to miscalculate and make a bad business decision. He decided that there was enough demand to inflate his price.

“D-dude,” he coughed, still choking on Carlos’s spunk, “If yer gonna do that kinda shit—get all rough and shit—you gotta pay more. At least four or five big ones, man.”

“You worthless piece of shit,” Carlos returned in an even, toneless voice. “We had an agreement.”

“Yeah, and now I’m uppin’ the price, man. I can take gettin’ used, dawg, but you gotta pay extra for that freaky chokin’ shit, see?”

Even in his drugged state, Kris could feel the tension in the room thicken like glue. He half-expected the stud to explode in rage; he was somewhat disconcerted when the guy gave him a cold, shark-like grin instead. “Sure,” the alpha replied, “I’ll go to five if ya want.”

There was something about his malicious chuckle that raised Kris’s hackles. He suspected he was gonna get ripped off. “Show me,” he said suspiciously, still sitting on the floor with his firm, buff legs curled under him. “I wanna see yer cash, dude. Course, if ya ain’t got it, I’ll take meth, or coke. I mean look at this set-up—ya gotta have one of the three around here.”

The boywhore knew the value of his body and was trying to use it to get what he wanted. What he got was something he feared—something he’d heard about often enough, since it was an occupational hazard. He just never thought it’d happen to him.

His first clue was the flash in the older stud’s eyes; it was literally as if a light had shone momentarily. Unfortunately for Kris, he didn’t see the glare of rage for what it was. “So what’s it gonna be, dawg? Cash or dope, dude, ya gotta pay up—”

And that was when Carlos said, again in his calm, toneless voice, “Naw, ya faggot cunt, yer the one who’s gotta pay.” The second he finished speaking, he drove his foot forward, sinking the steel toe of his leather engineer boot deeply into the yielding, unprepared flesh of Kris’s belly.

“HOOOGH!!!” the boycunt cried as the swift, vicious kick forced all the air from his lungs; grabbing his midsection, the youth doubled over in agony, his sweet, innocent face twisted in pain.

“Fuck yeah, now yer talkin’” Carlos crowed as he stood over the shuddering, gasping youth. “Ya like that, ya faggot cunt? Huh? That feel good, cocksucker? Cause just like my load, there’s plenty more where that come from!”

Fighting against the physical trauma, Kris managed to inhale deeply enough to regain control of himself. He knew now, beyond any drugged doubt, that he’d picked up a bad john. He knew he’d let his defenses down and that his survival depended on his getting away from this psycho motherfucker as soon as possible.

So he bolted for the door.

He was already low to the ground so he lunged forward, below the grasp of the killer alpha—he hoped. Scooting past Carlos, he grabbed the doorknobs for the double bedroom doors. He didn’t stop to notice that the hulking stud wasn’t coming after him.

He did notice that he couldn’t open the doors.

Kris jerked frantically on the doorknobs as he became aware that Carlos had finally turned and was moving towards him. Whimpering in horror, the blond whore stopped trying to open the doors and beat on them mindlessly as death approached slowly and deliberately.

A strong hand gripped his shoulder and despite his hard dick, Kris was vaguely aware that he was pissing himself in terror. The yellow fluid spurted from his erect shaft again when he felt the grip on his other shoulder. When Carlos whispered, “Big mistake, asswipe,” a flood of urine splashed from Kris’s cock, splattering his black hightops, but before he knew what he was doing, he was flipped in the air up over Carlos’s shoulder and slammed back down flat on the floor face-down with rib-shattering violence.

Kris’s breath was driven from his muscled frame with a loud, agonized grunt. As he moaned and writhed on the floor, the killer’s big black boots stepped into view. Suddenly, Carlos squatted down. Grabbing a fistful of long blond hair, he pulled the kid’s head back, twisting it to the side so he could look into the slut’s pale, terrified face.

Carlos let go of Kris’s hair and stood back up, then, with a swift kick, slammed his boot into the weeping punk’s face and snapped a cheekbone. The handsome blond whore squealed, grabbing at his injured face and groveling on the floor. “Shaddup, ya worthless cockpig,” the hypersexual alpha snarled, his thick tool still erect and dripping as he bent down and jerked Kris by the hair yet again.

This time, he forced the trembling youth upright and up against the wall in the corner of the bedroom. Finding himself trapped with the well-built powerful body of the vicious killer in front of him, Kris began babbling. Tears streaked down his bruised, swelling face as he begged for his life.

His shrill pleas were suddenly cut off when a hand encased in a tight black leather glove closed around his throat. Kris opened his eyes wide, just in time to see the other gloved hand, balled into a fist, drawn back then rocketing towards him with blinding speed.

The blow landed on Kris’s nose, smashing it with a wet, squelching sound. The hot young slut jerked, his howl of pain managing to escape Carlos’s grip on his neck. The vicious stud cut the cry off with another swift punch; this one caught the bitch on his jaw, snapping his mouth shut so fast and so hard that the boy bit through his bottom lip. After that, the succession of belts and bashes to the face were brutally regular.

Kris was stunned, his head rocking back under the hail of blows that were slamming against it. As blood flowed from his split lip and bruises bloomed on his young, smooth face, the whimpering cunt could just barely make out the words his assailant was hissing with malevolent glee.

Carlos paused, his large, muscled body heaving and slick with sweat. Kris focused his blackened, swollen eyes on the powerfully-built alpha. It was drawn first to the thick gold chain around the convict’s neck, glinting and highlighting the buff killer’s neck tats. But then he shifted to Carlos’s balled fist, drawn back to shoulder level and waiting, ready to spring into action in the blink of an eye, inflicting even more agony and more damage.

During the tension-laden pause in the violence, Kris had time to notice that the skin-tight glove looked wet. His already drugged and now brutalized brain didn’t have time to realize that his own blood was too dark to show on the black leather. Then his attention was drawn back to the cold, hard masculine countenance of his killer.

“You wanted money,” Carlos whispered, his eyes narrowing with a piercing, ice-cold rage. The expression would have made Kris piss himself again if anything had been left in his flaccid bladder. “How much was it, cunt? How much didja want me to pay?”

Kris blinked dazedly and moaned. With unbelievable speed, the sadistic alpha drove his bulging, inked arm into the rentboy’s face with the force of a jackhammer; after an intense, bright-red explosion of agony, the hard-bodied young whore shuddered and coughed up a bicuspid.

“Answer me, you cumsucking cunt, or I’m gonna knock out yer teeth one by one, ya hear? How much? How much didja want, faggot?”

“T-t-two h-hundr-dr-dred…” Kris muttered, barely afloat in a sea of pain. There was a slight whistling sound caused by the gap in his teeth.

Carlos’s face twisted in anger. “Lyin’ homo bitch!” he snarled, slamming another right hook into the youth’s jaw. “It was two-fifty, yeah? That’s what ya think yer worth, you piece of shit? You stupid cumsuckin’ motherfucker, didja really think I was so desperate to fuck your worn-out asshole that I’d spend that much for ya?”

He punctuated his contempt with another blow. Kris could sense this one coming and tried to turn away but the hand of the buff sadist was gripping his neck too tightly for him to move.

Not that it mattered. Carlos went low this time, delivering a devastating and excruciating gutpunch. His gloved fist smacked into Kris smooth, flat belly; despite the kid’s firm abs, the jab sank in deeply. The whore’s throat wasn’t closed off and the gutbash drove the air out of him in a loud, deep grunt.

“And now you want more, you fucking pervert? Ya want more money cause you ain’t enough of a faggot to take my cock? Fuck, bitch, if I’m gonna pay that much, I wanna free trial. Ha! Yeah, cunt, I think I’m gonna try before I buy—you gonna guarantee my satisfaction, huh? Fuck no you ain’t, you reamed-out pansy-ass whore; ain’t no way a little queer pain pig like you gonna satisfy a real man!”

What happened next happened so quickly that Kris wasn’t even aware that it happened at all. With one hand around Kris’s jaw, Carlos bent down and, reaching under the whoreboy’s oozing cock, grabbed his ass. Standing back up, the muscled convict pivoted and tossed the youth onto the bed. He was standing near the foot of the bed so that Kris landed on his left side, head toward the headboard.

Rolling onto his back, Kris gurgled and gasped, still trying to recover his breath. His bruised and swollen eyes were difficult to open but when they did, he had a blurred view of the hulking form of Carlos towering over him at the foot of the bed, his amazingly sculpted torso glistening with sweat in the reflected light that also glittered on the gold chain at his throat.

With exaggerated slowness, the aggressive sadist slipped off his leather vest. His massive cock dangled over Kris’s fit and nubile body, hot precum dripping onto the kid’s flesh and burning it like melted wax. The panicked whore tried to beg, to plead for forgiveness or mercy or something—it didn’t matter—but was so terrified that nothing emerged from his trembling lips beyond a shuddering moan.

Stooping down, Carlos grabbed Kris’s legs and pulled them up as he climbed onto the bed so that the boy’s shiny Adidas kicks were resting on his shoulders. Bending the rentboy double, he slapped the swollen purple head of his cock against the slut’s puckered fuckhole.

Then all the pain Kris had experienced faded to the intensity of love taps compared to what he had to endure—it was as if someone had suddenly and unexpectedly shoved a baseball bat up his ass without warning and without lube. If the hot young boywhore had been able to breathe, he might have screamed; as it was, all he could do was flap his jaw and gasp like a dying fish.

The pain was so mind-shattering that Carlos had pumped his enormous shaft up Kris’s ass half a dozen times before the latter realized he was getting buttfucked. While his rectum was being brutally shredded, the well-built rentboy writhed on the smooth satin bedspread and tried desperately to inhale. He succeeded—but not for long.

His mistake was screaming. Deep in his pig soul, Kris knew that it was a mistake, but he was in too much agony to control himself, and he was too terrified to try. The whore was well aware that he was trapped, pinned helplessly under his muscle-bound rapist.

He was also aware of the stories that circulated among the hustler crowd—horror stories of boys who’d gone off with the wrong trick, only to be found tortured, raped and murdered when they were found at all. He’d always listened to the tales with a sort of amused contempt, not fully believing them, and certain that he was far too smart to be caught in such a situation should it occur.

But tonight he’d been drunk and high and horny. He’d mixed business and pleasure and had been too fucked up to recognize any red flags. It was his own fault but if he could just survive this night—

—and then the panic bubbled over and the welling scream finally burst from Kris’s swollen, bleeding lips.

“Goddam, ya stupid sack a’ shit, shut the fuck up!” Carlos bark, his face twisted in rage. He rested more of his heavy, buff body on the flailing punk, pinning the cunt to the bed with his cock. Kris’s own swollen, throbbing cock was pressed between their two flat, firm bellies; his hightops jerked and kicked on his rapist’s shoulders As Carlos leaned in, his hard, handsome, cruel face filling Kris’s field of vision, the boy inhaled the deep masculine scents of pheromones and mansweat.

“I’m sick of yer squealin’, pig,” Carlos hissed, “And it’s time for you to die anyway. Beatin’ the fuck outta yer fag ass got me all kinda hard, bitch, huh? Yeah, ya like that idea? Ya like gettin’ worked over by a real man, faggot? Fuckin-A, I think I’m blow a load here soon—ya know what that means, dontcha, ya homo cumdump? It means I’m gonna put ya down like a fuckin’ dog—fuck, I hope this hurts. I hope ya die in horrible fuckin’ agony, dude—it’s so goddam hot!”

With a quick shift of his arms, Carlos wrapped one leather-gloved hand around Kris’s neck and clamped the other over the whore’s face, sealing off his mouth and nose. Just before his air was cut off, Kris got whiff of musky leather scent from the black glove.

Then he realized he was suffocating.

Carlos hunched down over the helpless youth, their torsos pressed together in hot sweaty mansex, fur scraping over skin on a lube of testosterone-spiked perspiration. Kris’s battered, blackened eyes bulged in terror as the convict sneered and spit in his face. The whore closed his eyes but couldn’t turn his head—Carlos was putting a lot of his weight on his arms; his hand was literally crushing the cunt’s nose and lips.

Some part of his mind, walled off from the agony of the brutal assrape, was able to discern a faint jingling sound amid the grunting of the rutting top and the noise of violent sex. Feeling the killer’s spittle slide down his cheek, Kris opened his eyes again, catching sight of Carlos’s gold chain. The boy knew what the jingling sound had been. The thick chain seem to be dancing in the air with malicious glee, coming to life with each of its owner’s deep, repeated thrusts.

Each penetrating plunge of his killer’s cock brought searing agony to Kris’s rectum, but every part of his body was flooded with pain. Beyond the shiny dark do-rag covering Carlos’s head, Kris could see his own hightops kicking feebly in the air; he had no idea that the slashing pain across his midsection was from being doubled-over. Carlos’s ferocious gutpunch had torn the slut’s liver; this position was tearing it even more. Left untreated, the injury was large enough to cause Kris to bleed to death internally with about forty-five minutes…

But there was other pain. His once-adorable face had been beaten to an unrecognizable pulp out of which his large brown eyes now protruded grotesquely, tiny hemorrhages popping up in the whites. His long blond hair, dark and matted with sweat, was spread in tangles across the gold satin comforter. And the excruciating pressure that the muscled and tattooed convict was now exerting on his already-broken nose and torn lips made him claw frantically at the killer’s hands—only to find the leather gloves so smooth and tight he was unable to catch a grip.

And then the pain got really bad. It got bad because Kris had been without oxygen for almost a minute; reflexively, his body fought for survival by dumping a shitload of adrenaline into the dying rentboy’s bloodstream. When it hit his brain, it triggered a tsunami of panic.

Kris was suddenly very, very aware that he was dying.

He jerked and kicked desperately, his hands flailing against Carlos’s rock-hard body. One hand reached up to the sadist’s grinning face, scraping at the rough stubble on his face; the other hand, grabbing at Carlos’s chest, managed to snatch the gold chain and yank it, but the thick metal links didn’t give way. The kid let go, reaching around to beat fruitlessly against the stud’s steel-like bicep.

Carlos stopped thrusting, giving his powerful thighs a break. He didn’t need to pump any more anyway; the meat was doing the work for him now. It was something he’d learned from Nick—at a certain point, the fuckmeat loses its shit and starts bucking like a bronco.

“All ya gotta do then,” Nick had said, “Is pretend like yer breakin’ a horse, ya know? Ya gotta stay in the saddle and ride it till it tires out. If ya work it right, you can hold the fag in that position and make it milk your cock until it’s down for good and you can let those fuckin’ hot-ass anal convulsions jack ya off…”

That was exactly what Carlos was doing now. His huge, powerful arms were clamped onto Kris’s face and neck and locked like iron bars. His monstrously engorged shaft was buried deep in the youth’s guts. His leather-clad legs were spread wide, his engineer boots secure on the floor, giving his hunched-over posture the stability to keep the struggling rentboy pinned into place.

“That’s it,” he murmured quietly, barely above a whisper, “That’s it, bitch, fight it. Keep fightin’ you useless faggot whore, keep fightin’ for yer worthless life—it ain’t gonna do you no good, but it’s doin’ me plenty good right now, cunt! Fuck yeah, keep it up, motherfucker, yer working my tool so fuckin’ good right now—aw, fuck, dude, is that yer tongue? I can feel it through the glove, cocksucker, yer tongue is stickin’ out! Ya know what that means? It means yer dyin’, asswipe, yer gonna die here and now with my hog up yer guts—ain’t that so fuckin’ hot, ya cumsuckin’ fag?”

Trembling on the verge of brain death, Kris heard the words and understood them but wasn’t able to process them fully through the roaring, pulsing silence that was darkening his pain-wracked existence. Pressure was building in too many places—his head, his ass, his chest, his scrotum—that he couldn’t focus on anything.

His frenetic clawing had stopped; his hands were now gripping Carlos’s upper arms tightly in what could have been mistaken for the acquiescent clutch of an eager, willing bottom. His wild thrashing slowed to a more rhythmic movement. As silent explosions burst in his head and dimmed his vision, Kris was still aware of his painfully-erect dick. It had been—and still was being—massaged between his flat, smooth, sweat-slick belly and Carlos’s hard, ripped, furry abs and had not stopped throbbing and oozing throughout Kris’s ordeal.

Carlos had noticed it too. “You fuckin’ disgustin’ faggot pig,” he sneered, hocking up a wad of phlegm and spitting it into the whore’s tear-streaked face. “You deserve this, you piece of queer shit, dontcha? Ya know it, too, cocksucker—that’s why yer dick is hard, innit? Fuckin’ homosexual scumbag pervert, ya know ya need to get put down like a cock-worshippin’ pig! This is what ya needed, huh—a real man to take ya out? You were just waiting for the right dude to come along, weren’t ya—someone man enough to treat ya like the worthless piece of garbage ya are?”

The sadistic killer’s cruel words faded to a ringing echo in Kris’s mind as more and more of his brain failed from oxygen deprivation. His hands slid up Carlos’s arms and over his shoulders, past his own sporadically quivering black Adidas hightops. As death approached swiftly, Kris’s hands clutched Carlos’s muscular back. Jerking his arms involuntarily in his final few moments, the young boywhore held his murderer in an embrace tighter than any lover’s.

As a result, their faces were close together at the end. Kris was being crushed in the grip of an icy, all-consuming darkness, but he could still feel parts of his body—and he could hear.

“Ok, faggot, I’m gettin’ bored with yer ass—you done worn out yer welcome, bitch. I got shit to do; I ain’t got all night waitin’ for you to get me off. I’m a busy man, dude, time for me to drain my load and move on. Yer a suck-ass whore, by the way—hope ya got cash in yer wallet, cunt; you owe me for the time I’m takin’ to waste yer useless ass. So ya ready to get this done? I sure the fuck am, scumbag. Die, you worthless motherfucker!”

It was a single swift movement that was utterly spontaneous; in the blink of an eye, Carlos had let go of Kris’s mouth, reaching up and grabbing a fistful of as much of the kid’s hair as he could. Wrapping it around his right hand, he yanked that arm back with a might jerk that made his inked bicep bulge even more; at the same time, he threw himself down with all his weight on his left arm.

Kris’s head snapped forward and, with the splintering sound of shattering vertebrae, popped off the top of his spinal column.

The whore’s last experience in his pathetic, wasted existence, was an electrical shock that ran through his entire body, holding him momentarily in an agonized paralysis as his balls exploded and released a raging flood of semen through his rigid shaft. His boiling deathload spewed in a solid stream of cum that lasted for a good fifteen seconds, hosing the dead slut’s belly and splattering up along Carlos’s chest.

Instinctively, Carlos bent his head back as a final wad shot between them, splashing against the picture window and smearing the view. Carlos’s reaction was instinctive because he was cumming so hard himself that his eyes rolled back in his head. His massive, well-built body bent back, rigid with extreme stress as the hulking alpha injected the dying boycunt with his load, pumping what felt like a dull quart of manseed into the dead kid’s convulsing fuckhole.

Carlos’s huge puckered scrote wasn’t empty, though—bending forward to send his second jet of spunk into the youth’s guts, the sadist was so lost in his bloodlust that he leaned too far forward over his victim. His boots had good deep tread, but they could only go so far.

Carlos fell forward, full-length on his victim’s trembling corpse. He ended up spewing his final wad into the dead boy with his face in the mattress, cheek-to-cheek with that of the corpse, now doubled over into a position that would be impossible for a living person.

And there they stayed for at least three minutes while Carlos regained control of himself. Heaving and panting, he finally straightened up, withdrawing his still-throbbing purple cock from his victim’s ruined anus. Heading for the bathroom, he kept one hand wrapped around the head of his shaft to avoid having any cum drip onto the carpet.

After all, he already had enough of a problem figuring out how to clean the bedspread and take out the garbage before Nick got back; he wasn’t afraid of Nick, but he wasn’t sure how the dude who paid the bills would react to something like this, so he wanted to keep it on the DL…

Carlos didn’t watch the videos Nick made of him; his interest was in the doing, not the viewing, for which Nick was grateful. The experienced snuff producer had known that the cameras he’d hidden in the condo—more than twenty in the bedroom itself—would come in handy with Carlos around.

He’d seen the video within an hour of returning from Tahoe; it was edited and posted online at a very high premium by that evening; it had returned a record profit by morning.

Joe rolled over in bed, his hard, hairy body sluggish in sleep. The phone on the nightstand was beeping an alert. Instantly, he was awake—albeit reluctantly; less than eight hours ago he’d been engaged in vigorous physical activity. But this might be work. In his line, he didn’t have a regular schedule. He was always on call.

Sitting up, he glanced down at the phone and realized it wasn’t his. The details of last night came flooding back to him. The little daddy’s boy faggot he popped. This was that kid’s phone. He’d taken some good shots of the corpse but hadn’t sent them to daddy yet. He’d planned to do that once he got home, but he was so worn out, he’d fallen asleep before he got it done.

Of course, he might have had time to get the pics sent if he hadn’t played around on the cunt’s phone, posting a couple of ads on the fag sex apps the little homo had on his phone. Stupid piece of shit hadn’t even bothered with any passwords, either. Joe was free to post whatever he wanted under the dead kid’s login.

That was what was happening now. There’d been a response. The original post had been a generic “looking for sex” note giving nothing more than physical stats and neighborhood (one a good half-hour from Joe’s actual residence).

Despite Joe’s lack of rest, his dick slowly swelled and jutted as he read the reply.

“hey man i aint been with a dude but I wanna try just turned 18 cant do anything at home HMU if you wanna meet but its gotta be public I don’t want no pervs”

Joe tamped his hypersexual excitement down and sent back a response, asking about the boy’s appearance. The teen sent back a selfie, showing a broad, grinning face with a large nose, big brown eyes with long lashes and curly hair nearly the same shade of brown. Only the top of the kid’s torso was visible, but it showed a smooth chest, lean but broad.

The alpha suggested a meeting in the area he’d mentioned in the post, at a coffee bar he’d passed on occasion. The kid agreed to the location, but asked that they meet that evening.

It seemed that over the holiday break, his parents had enrolled him in a draconian vacation bible school. Any absence would be reported to them. Afterwards, however, he could sneak out…

Joe grunted in frustration. He wanted the tender young cunt now—but there was nothing he could do about it. Stifling his anger, he agreed to meet the boy at ten o’clock that night.

But the little bible-thumping cumsucker was gonna pay for making him wait. In the meantime, he eased the sadistic beast within him by sending SWAT daddy the pics of his raped and murdered son…

————————————————————————————————-

Joe was in the parking lot at half-past nine, scoping the place out and waiting for the kid to show up. He wanted to see how the teen arrived—if he came by car, if he came alone—anything to let him know if it was safe to continue with his plans. Based on the punk’s response, Joe expected him to be alone, but he wasn’t taking any chances.

Laying the seat back, the buff alpha lit a cigarette as he waited. He cracked the window and exhaled the smoke, his thick black leather jacket letting him ignore the winter chill. The white thermal shirt stretched tightly across his broad chest helped insulate him as well, but he could feel the cool air descend over his legs. His black jeans were faded and worn, and skin-tight as they were, did little to keep out the cold.

He didn’t care. The heat welling angrily from his swollen crotch was enough.

He shifted his feet, his heavy leather engineer boots making scuffling sounds as the thick soles dragged on the floor mats. As his cigarette dwindled and he lit another, his impatience built. He’d fully expected the kid to show up at least a couple of minutes early, but it was just past ten now and the little piece of shit hadn’t shown up yet.

That didn’t bode well for the cunt’s immediate future.

Joe was just about to light yet another smoke when he saw the boy, walking quickly as he turned the corner from a side street. He was alone—stupid motherfucker, he was gonna regret that—and wore a gray fleece hoodie zipped up with the hood tightened around his head. Only his face was visible, with a few sandy locks on his forehead, but it was enough for Joe to recognize him.

He couldn’t see what the kid was wearing under the hoodie, but he had a taut pair of skinny jeans below, the pale brown material—almost the same color as his hair—cradling his rounded asscheeks. White, firmly-laced hightop sneakers completed his outfit.

Even from a distance, there was something in the kid’s face—or maybe it was something that wasn’t there…

He got out of the car, his black boots striding quickly across the asphalt as he intercepted the youth before he could get inside the crowded coffee shop. The odd impression of the boy’s face increased as he approached; after a moment, he recognized what he was noticing.

Innocence. The boy was sexually curious, but was utterly inexperienced in sex. The powerful sadist struggled to stifle an evil grin, but was unable to control the enlarging bulge in his groin. He was gonna enjoy destroying the unlucky kid. The punk had no idea what he was about to suffer.

“Hey,” he called out softly, “you’re late. Thought you were gonna be here at ten.”

The boy stopped and sized him up. The kid clearly liked what he saw. His jeans were just as incapable of hiding his erection as Joe’s were in his own case—two hard throbbing dicks visible as they looked at each other. Joe could see lust lighting the twink’s hazel eyes as they followed the contour of the older man’s thick hog, outlined in his crotch in tight denim.

The boy blinked. “Name’s Noah,” he gasped throatily before gulping nervously and holding out his hand.

Joe grinned easily. “I’m Trevor,” he replied. It didn’t matter if the punk new his real name or not, but Joe didn’t want anyone to overhear; there was a couple getting into a car a few feet away.

“Sorry I’m late,” Noah said sheepishly. “We were late getting back from bible study and it took my folks a while to get to sleep.”

“You had to sneak out?” Joe asked, careful to keep the contempt out of his voice.

“Yeah,” Noah admitted, blushing with embarrassment. “See, my folks are real strict and they’re real religious, too. I’m not allowed out alone after nine at night. And Dad takes the car keys with him when he goes to bed, so I had to walk. I mean, they don’t let me have a license, but I can drive.”

Joe chuckled silently to himself. “You couldn’t get a friend to give you a lift?”

Noah was horrorstruck. “Dude, all my friends are in the same church as me—they’d rat me out to my parents in a heartbeat! And if they knew I was meeting a strange man…” He broke off, the thought making him shudder. “Y’know, maybe I shouldn’t do this…”

Noah winced at the curse but seemed to consider the idea. Joe upped the ante. “Besides, I got a room at a motel halfway across town where nobody’s gonna know either of us.”

He had, too. It was a cheap, run-down place out on what had been the highway until the bypass was built. Now it was a rent-by-hour/day/week/month joint that served more as a flophouse to the locals. It was full of whores and drunks—but not, at least, bedbugs.

Before coming to the coffee bar, he’d driven there and given a tweaker forty bucks to rent a twenty-dollar room for the night. After, Joe pocketed the key, secure in the knowledge that the meth addict would take the change and get so wasted that within a couple of hours he’d be unable to remember who gave him cash for a room.

Noah hesitated, glancing uneasily through the window, as if making sure no one inside had recognized him. The kid was deep in the closet and scared as hell. Joe recognized the symptoms. He’d have to coax the little fuck gently, at least for a while. Once they got to the room, he’d have the cunt in his control.

The powerful alpha smiled charmingly at the skittish teen, his rugged, scruffy good looks adding irresistibly to the lure of his muscled body. Noah fought within himself, his fundamental Christian upbringing battling ferociously with his pure pig lust. The hormones pumping through his lithe teen body decided the issue.

The parking lot was empty by this time. No one saw the teen in the hoodie and the powerfully-built dude in leather and jeans get into the same car.

As his car headed north, then east through town, the buff sadist was surprised to feel the teen’s hand fumbling between his legs. The boy was anxious to fondle the older dude’s shaft. As Noah gripped the thick, denim-wrapped shaft, he inhaled shakily in lust and amazement; the strapping, mysterious stud was hung like a horse.

The naïve youth was enthralled; he had no actual experience with other men—not even in terms of porn; he’d had no unrestricted internet access. He had little with which he could compare the massive tube of flesh his hands were now massaging; only his own cock seemed adequate.

The latter was smaller, but not by much. Noah wasn’t unendowed himself; his own vein-wrapped tool was almost a good seven inches long and two in diameter. And while Noah hadn’t seen any porn, he’d seen his classmates in the locker room at his private religious school. He’d treasured up the images of smooth naked teen bodies for his beat-off sessions, but he’d also noticed that he was better hung than any of the other boys.

Now he’d met someone even bigger. And even though he knew it was not just disgusting and sinful but downright dangerous, he couldn’t help being drawn in, hoping to be introduced to dark, hidden pleasures he hadn’t dared to fully acknowledge, even to himself.

Joe was already aware of what was running through the boy’s mind; it really wasn’t that difficult to figure out. He reveled in anticipation of his control over the kid’s emotions as he lulled the religious youth into taking his cock before unleashing an explosion of violence.

Noah had been too preoccupied with dick to notice his surroundings, but he looked up as Joe pulled into the motel parking lot. He tightened the drawstring of his hoodie, craning his neck as he looked around concernedly. “Uh, Trevor?” he quavered, “uh, is this place ok?”

Noah’s cock was still erect and pulsing within the tight confines of his skinny jeans; he jumped out of the car, his white hightops padding along silently in the footprints of Joe’s thick black boots. The sadistic alpha had already switched on a light in the room by the time the kid reached the doorway.

The privileged, protected youth looked around at the rented squalor in despair. He’d only ever experienced squeaky-clean households and sanitized thoughts (except for those dark sinful ones that gave him wood).

The room was dim and hazy, still reeking of smoke. Not just cigarettes (he’d recognized that illicit scent on the mysterious stud and it made him start to ooze from his mushroom tip) but the sweet and unfamiliar scents of weed and crack. The rickety furniture was marked with dark lines—burns, actually, spots where cigarettes had burnt down and hot crack and meth pipes had been set down.

The dank, fetid air was being pushed lazily around by an ancient window AC unit that was not in a window but had been placed in a hole cut in the rear wall; it looked like garbage but the heat certainly worked—the room was over eighty degrees. The double bed had a cheap iron headboard and a thin polyester cover; the pillows, also thin, were covered with yellowed, stained linen.

But then he looked back at the bulging muscles of the handsome top and decided to shelve his objections. After all, he’d been right—no one Noah knew could possibly be in this neighborhood. The place was filthy, but so was the act. And the desire. Filthy, all of it.

And he wanted to be so fucking filthy…

“C’mon, boy, lessee what ya got,” Joe smirked as he rubbed the massive bulge in his groin. He leered suggestively at the innocent teen, knowing that the young faggot would have to respond.

He was right. Noah gulped again, his Adam’s apple slipping up and down his smooth neck. His hands shook as he reached for the zipper of his hoodie; they shook not in fear but in excitement. He slipped off the grey jacket, revealing a slate-gray long sleeve button-down shirt tucked into his beige skinny jeans.

At the same time, Joe took off his thick leather jacket, the clinging material of the white thermal shirt revealing the full breadth of his massive pectorals. The shirt was open at the neck, displaying a V-shaped wedge of dark wiry chest hair. Rolled up as they were, the sleeves did nothing to hide the alpha’s muscular, hairy forearms.

Joe stood over Noah and slipped off the shirt, his powerful torso glistening with sweat in the hazy light of the overheated room. The room wasn’t the only thing to get overheated; Noah found himself literally aching with desire as his eyes slid down the stud’s sculpted body, the lower half still wrapped in jeans.

Noah tried amateurishly to add a seductive strip-tease effect as he undressed, but his hands were trembling so much he had difficulty in getting the buttons of his shirt undone. Joe watched and smiled patiently as his rage flared inside at this delay in his gratification. He managed to control the desire to reach out and tear the shirt right off the bitch, buttons popping everywhere. And after all, why not? The kid was right where Joe wanted him…

But just then Noah managed to get the last button undone and slipped out of the shirt. A thin white cotton t-shirt was underneath. The boy smiled hesitantly, still uneasy, as he pulled it off over his head.

Underneath, his young teen body was smooth and slim but not scrawny. Even at a distance, Joe could see the soft, silky texture of the youth’s skin. Tender flesh waiting to be used and tortured—Joe’s lust was getting harder to restrain. He needed to take a moment.

Abruptly turning his back on the slut, he strode across the floor to the table where he’d left his jacket, his leather engineer boots leaving little impression on the soiled, threadbare carpet. Reaching into one of the pockets on the jacket, he fished out his smokes and lit one up, slipping the pack and lighter back into the jacket. He didn’t carry them in the jeans—they were truly skin-tight and would have crushed the pack.

Noah looked on, half in fascination and half in concern. He didn’t know many people who smoked—and those he did, his parents never failed to point out, were going to burn in Hell for various sins, cigarettes only one of them.

The thought of what they’d say if they could see him was strangely appealing. This was forbidden and that made it so much more erotic…

“W-won’t that make my clothes smell?” he asked shakily as he leaned against the bed and crossed one leg over the other so he could untie his sneakers.

Noah nodded mutely. The enormity of what has happening had hit him. He was about to lose his virginity—with an anonymous older man in a motel room. There was no going back after this. Whatever else happened in his life, it would be stained by this night.

But in the battle between piety and hormones, the latter was the natural winner. After all, his young, healthy body was at its sexual peak. Noah rarely jacked off; that was a sin, too—worse than cigarettes, by far. And he had almost no privacy at home anyway.

Lust, aided by the thick musky scents of sweat and smoke, stifled the tritely moralistic murmurings in Noah’s mind. Having pulled off his hightops, he dropped his jeans first. He stood across from Joe, his lithe young body nude except for his thin white briefs and his calf-high athletic socks. Joe took another drag from his cig and leered at the kid’s groin; it looked like he’d stuffed a sausage in his underwear.

Joe knew damn good and well the cringing little faggot hadn’t done anything with anybody ever. But tonight, he was playing for effect. Tonight wasn’t just assrape—it was mindrape too. So the cunt had to be cajoled.

And besides, the punk wanted it. “Fuck, dude, don’t back out now. Lookit yer dick, man—even from here I can see how hard it is. You want my shaft, don’t ya, son? It’s ok—you can take my rod up your virgin hole tonight and no one will know.”

Noah moaned in erotic lust as a dark spot appeared on the white cotton briefs. Joe chuckled, noting that it was right at the tip of the slut’s cock. Motherfuckin’ homo was already oozing.

“Drop ‘em,” the hulking sadist whispered, pitching his voice seductively low. “Drop yer drawers, boy, and get on the bed.”

Noah trembled, but he obeyed, slipping out of the briefs. His flat belly fell smoothly to his groin where curly sand-colored pubes framed a thick, semi-erect tube of pulsing meat. Clear drops of fluid were dripping out of the dark mushroom tip.

The naked teen backed up onto the bed, his beautiful, lithe body gingerly avoiding the stains on the cheap bedspread. Joe dropped his cigarette and casually crushed it out with his big black boot as he moved towards the bed. The burn was unnoticeable among the others darkening the carpet.

The powerful alpha towered over the punk and leered down at him. Instinctively, the youth cowered in the shadow of the older man, but glanced up immediately when he heard the dude open his zipper. The older man had already unbuckled his belt; the thick leather strap dangled loosely on each side of his denim-bound hips.

The biggest dick Noah had ever seen was his own. That changed now.

Joe pulled out his cock slowly and expertly, appreciating the effect he was having on his prey. The kid gaped openly as inch after inch of the stud’s swollen, throbbing shaft emerged from his open fly. The flesh was so dark, it was almost black, fed by the ropy veins that tightly circled the pulsating rod. The thick dark trail of fur leading down the stud’s muscled chest and over his firm abs seemed to be designed to direct attention to the groin.

Noah gulped in astonishment. He was scared, but not as much as he should have been, even without knowing Joe’s plans for him. He’d never so much as played with his ass before—the boy was impressed with the older man’s penis but had no concept of how much it would hurt jammed up his colon.

Even so, the alpha’s dick was intimidating. “Wh-what ya gonna do with that?” he asked tremulously.

Joe spoke quietly, the deep bass of his voice seeming to vibrate the root of Noah’s cock. “Look at it boy,” he muttered, “look at my dick. You want it, dontcha? G’wan, put it in yer mouth. Do it, boy, you know ya wanna.”

The alpha was right. Noah did wanna. He looked confused and timid, but he leaned forward and took the spongy purple tip into his open mouth, working his tongue over the oozing head and teasing the tender rosebud on the underside. He slurped loudly, enjoying the salty taste of the precum leaking into his mouth.

Noah was both shocked and thrilled with the abuse. Leaning even father forward, he opened his jaw as wide as he could to deepthroat the dominant stranger, his right hand a blur as he jacked his own tool wildly. Even more erotic was the way the muscular stud clamped his hands on the back of the boy’s head and forced it down onto his throbbing tubesteak. Deep in the grip of overwhelming lust, the teen had shed his trepidation and succumbed to his long-suppressed desires.

The top’s thick column of meat slid into the youth’s throat, plugging it thoroughly. The kid gagged and choked as Joe’s dick sealed off his airpipe, anxiety rising in his lust-fogged mind as his breath was blocked. As his eyes started to water, he braced his hands against the alpha’s legs and tried to shove him away. It was like trying to topple a large tree by pushing it over; he could feel the power in the taut denim-covered muscles flexing against his palms.

Then, with a sardonic chuckle too subtle for the horny teen to interpret, Joe pulled out. The hardbodied sadist admired his dick, bobbing in the air and dripping long streamers of boyspit as Noah retched, trying not to puke up the dinner his momma had made him. The shuddering youth coughed up drool that flowed off his chin, straight down onto the engorged head of his own cock.

He’d liked it. It’d been scary—terrifying, for a moment—but he’d liked it. He’d liked how the larger, stronger man had taken control and used his face as a fucktoy. Not that the innocent little faggot virgin would have expressed it in those terms, of course, but the lust motivating his warped pig soul was the same.

The fact that it was a disgusting sin that would instantly damn him to Hell only made it sexier. He was ready to be bad.

Wiping his chin with the back of his hand, Noah looked up at the strapping, broad-chested alpha. He was suddenly entranced with the stranger’s black chest hair, as if noticing it for the first time. Timorously, he extended a hand.

It was only with a great deal of patience and an almost superhuman suppression of rage that Joe allowed the boycunt to touch him. He stood tall and erect next to the bed, letting the punk run his hands over his huge pecs and fondle his nipples before the greedy, desire-driven fingers sank lower down his body and curled in the fur coating his rippled abs.

His anger was expressed through his cock, which pulsed visibly, pumping out a steady stream of clear precum. Noah noticed the effect but had no clue as to the cause.

That thought made Joe’s dick throb even more. Even if the stupid little shit had a clue, there was no way he could conceive the nightmare in store for him.

Then again, maybe he could. There were some imaginative deaths in the Bible. Joe’s grin came back, more evil than ever. He looked down at the teen with a cold, appraising contempt. The cunt would do; he’d be an acceptable meatsack to soak up Joe’s seed.

Time to get biblical on his ass.

He started slow. “Ok, boy,” he said, just a hint of menace in his husky voice, “get on your back. Time to go whole hog.” He grinned and thrust his hips slightly so that his huge dick swung between his legs. “And believe me, punk, you’re gettin’ the whole hog.”

Trembling with both fear and desire, Noah moved back, his smooth skin crawling from contact with the thin polyester bedspread. He managed to wriggle to one side, pushing the cover away, only to find the cheap sheets underneath no more comfortable.

It didn’t matter. Tonight, he was gonna explore his darkest dreams; tomorrow he’d be back to being the good little choirboy his family thought he was. And even if he ultimately went to Hell for it, it’d be worth it.

The slim, handsome youth stretched out on his back and raised his legs in the air, presenting his fuckhole like a bitch in heat. He was gonna get fucked. A little discomfort wouldn’t matter.

The icy gleam in the alpha’s eyes should have been a warning, but the teen had nothing by which to judge it. Legs spread, he waited eagerly for his first—and unknown to him, his last—sexual experience.

Joe climbed on the bed, kneeling between the kid’s smooth, trembling legs. Grasping his huge oozing tube of manmeat, he rubbed his dick across the punk’s ass, smearing it with precum. He smiled gently as he placed the thick purple head of his cock against the boy’s buttcrack, the fine hairs tickling his swollen mushroom tip.

Noah felt the pressure and uttered a nervous, breathy moan. This was it. Everything he’d dreamed of, a hot hard powerful stranger who was gonna fuck the shit outta him.

And then he was gonna go home and pretend it never happened. He was gonna go on with his life and no one would ever know. His folks would never, could never know how he’d spent the night; it was something they were simply incapable of imagining. And that was all to Noah’s benefit. It meant he’d get away with it—so he quashed his anxiety and readied himself for intense physical pleasure.

But that wasn’t what he got.

Joe was ready. He knew the little motherfucker was a virgin and wouldn’t be able to handle his tool; he expected it. He didn’t even need to know the kid’s name to know how the pig would respond. He didn’t start forcefully, though, there was something he was waiting for, something the slut would ask for. So he applied pressure slowly, easing the head of his dick into the youth’s tight, intact fuckhole.

At the start, Noah shuddered with pleasure. As he felt the iron-hard shaft start to penetrate him, he inhaled deeply. The closeness of the muscular alpha flooded his sinuses with sweat and pheromones. The inexperienced teen’s impatience to have the handsome hulking stud buried deep inside him, marking him as his own, outweighed any other concern.

Fuck his parents, fuck the bible, fuck it all. He gave the Joe the invitation he’d been waiting for. The kid was ready to be a complete faggot pig.

“Fuck me, man,” he moaned in a mind-numbing fog of lust. “Do what you want to me, dude, fuck me rough. Make me yours tonight…” His plea trailed off in a gasp of desire.

Joe chuckled malignly. “Ok, cunt,” he sneered, “you asked for it.”

Even in his erotic frenzy, the curt, cold tone managed to cut its way through to the center of Noah’s awareness. By the time it did so, however, there were more pressing matters demanding his attention—like the horrible agony in his ass.

The cruel sadist had jammed the entire length of his massive, blood-engorged cock into the boy’s ass. The phenomenal girth of his member ripped open the youth’s sphincter, making the kid bleed like his cherry had been popped—as it had, brutally.

Noah couldn’t scream. He wanted to, badly, but he couldn’t—fuck, he couldn’t even breathe. It hurt too much. It hurt too much to breathe, to move, to think…

Move. He needed to move. He needed to get of this fucking rod that was impaling his tender rectum, oh fuck he needed to move—

Later, Joe was pissed at himself. He’d let his guard down and it almost backfired on him. Of course, when it happened, he’d been more pissed at the little homo teen. And so it was the young cocksucker who ultimately took the brunt of his wrath.

At the time, though, Noah thought he was achieving redemption, not damnation, as he clawed his way up off Joe’s enormous dick, kicking and flailing like a wild thing. Joe was momentarily taken aback—not long, but long enough that the writhing punk was able to scramble free towards the head of the bed.

In the next moment, the kid had rolled to the floor and bolted for the bathroom. In a blood-red rage, Joe lunged after his prey, only to have the boy evade him at the last moment and lock himself in.

As Noah slammed the door and turned the lock in the doorknob, he shuddered in relief—and started praying. He’d been wrong. He’d sinned, badly, and he’d been punished. It had hurt; only sinners could want pain like that, Jesus had shown him the way and he wasn’t ever gonna do anything like this again—

And that was when Joe’s big black boot kicked through the flimsy hollow-core door, punching out a huge hole. Squealing with fear, the terrified teenager threw himself on the floor and wrapped his arms around the base of the toilet. He babbled promises to behave to his God, pleading for salvation in air rank with piss.

The enraged alpha had gotten the bathroom door open. Noah kept his eyes squeezed shut; if he didn’t see what was happening, maybe God wouldn’t let it happen. He clung to that belief desperately as he heard the muscled sadist approach.

Joe was done playing. He bent down and wrapped one hand clean around the boy’s upper arm. With a powerful jerk, he pulled the punk free of the toilet and stalked back to the bedroom, dragging the helpless, sobbing youth across the floor behind him. With a swift, brutal yank, he flung the boy onto the bed.

Noah cowered, weeping in abject fear. He wasn’t curious anymore. He wanted to go home, go back to safe quiet bible study and beating off secretly in the bathroom. This—this was too scary, this stud, sexy as he was, was gonna hurt him.

The naïve teen glanced up into the face of his tormentor and flinched instantly. This time, there was no question of mistaking the formidable look of hot rage and cold lust. No, he wanted no part of any of this.

So why was his dick so fucking hard?

It was almost painfully erect, throbbing fiercely. An almost steady stream of clear fluid was leaking out. He didn’t understand. This wasn’t happening.

Then Joe made it happen.

He lunged forward in a lightning blast of violence, driving his fist into the punk’s soft, smooth belly with the force of an industrial piston. Noah gave a deep, loud grunt and instantly curled into a fetal position as a hard ball of pain tore through his midsection. The next few seconds seemed an eternity as the kid clutched his abdomen and writhed, trying to get air back into his lungs.

“Ya made a bad mistake, motherfucker,” Joe hissed, a frightening glint of psychotic glee dancing in his eyes. “I was only gonna kill ya before, you worthless cumsucking fag, but, see, now I gotta make it hurt.”

He sat gently on the bed next to Noah and softly stroked the boy’s tearstained face. Brushing away a lock of the kid’s soft brown hair, he leaned so close that Noah could feel the older man’s facial scruff scratch his ear. As he whispered, his breath was warm on the youth’s neck.

“That means I gotta make it slow…”

Still struggling for air, the closeted churchboy wasn’t able to comprehend what was being said to him; his attention was focused elsewhere, Joe observed with displeasure. Time to reorient the queer-ass bitch.

Joe rolled the kid onto his back and spread his legs. Noah realized what was going on just before Joe slammed the full length of his cock up the teen’s virgin ass. The pressure at the start was tremendous but Joe shoved his rod forward with renewed force, ripping new tears through the kid’s already-mangled sphincter the way his boot had ripped through the door.

It got Noah’s air back. His body contracted involuntarily in distress, stimulating him to inhale. The pain—this was Hell, he was being punished…this kinda pain could only come from Hell…

He shrieked in agony—once. The shrill screech was cut off when Joe balled his fist and sent a piledriver straight from his shoulder into the boy’s face, blackening his eye and snapping his cheekbone. “Shaddap!” he barked gruffly as he gripped the punk’s heaving torso in his huge hands, clamping down to hold the smooth lean body still as he penetrated it further.

Lost in a dark haze of pain, Noah had limited awareness of anything beyond his own suffering. His whole body seemed to be consumed in a flame of nightmarish agony from his ass to his face to his cock…

As his body shuddered under the violent sexual assault, Noah realized that his cock was not only still hard, it was so hard it hurt.

No, this couldn’t be. This couldn’t be him. This was wrong. He had to get away, this wasn’t going to happen to him… As the panic welled up inside the inexperienced teen, his struggles and cries began to intensify.

He hadn’t learned his lesson, Joe realized. Well, that was ok. The little fuck was young and healthy; he’d probably last for a while. Plenty of time for learnin’. But he needed lesson one all over again.

“I said shaddap!” Joe roared, throwing a feral growl into his voice that terrified the youth in the half-second before another donkey-punch landed, splitting his lips. “You keep your goddam mouth shut while I’m fuckin’ ya, you sniveling faggot, ya feeling me? Huh, you pansy bitch? You get what I’m sayin’?”

Noah’s eyes opened wide with shock; even in this nightmare anticipation of Hell, the alpha’s words had sunk in. No, this was wrong…he wasn’t a faggot…please, if he could just get away he’d never look at another dick again, he’d never—

And even as he pled silently, he realized it was a bargain he could never keep. High above the wave of pain swamping his nervous system, the hormone-flooded teen could still feel his own swollen shaft stabbing into the alpha’s rippled abs. An ineffectual weapon of defense, it left trails of clear slimy precum matting the muscled sadist’s dark belly fur.

Suddenly, Joe stopped. He was fully inserted, his long thick rod buried up to the root, his wiry pubes interlocked with the youth’s soft downy fuzz like Velcro. Sweating and gasping, the powerful top loomed over his victim, the helpless teen who was now pinned to the bed like an insect on his assailant’s cock.

The boy opened his eyes hesitantly—at least, he opened his right eye. He was shuddering in pain, barely able to breathe. The left side of his face was black and swelling, with blood leaking from his busted lips.

The image the suffering teenager saw stuck with him for the rest of his life—approximately another thirteen minutes.

The coldly handsome face of the older man hung just inches from his, but the expression on the hard, unshaven face was unlike anything the innocent youth had ever seen. A somehow erotic mixture of contempt, rage, and desire that offered no hope of compassion or common humanity. It was the expression of a sexual sadist.

Noah was too sheltered to have heard of such a thing, but he got an idea when Joe hocked up a huge wad of phlegm, grinned at the boy, and spit it into his face. “Fuckin’ faggot,” he sneered.

It triggered a desperate rebellion in Noah—unfortunately. “No!” he shouted in his mind, the reality being a guttural protest pushed out inarticulately between puffy lips. But it was enough to get the attention of the brawny psychopath.

“Goddam it, you piece a’ shit, you really are fuckin’ stupid, aintcha?” he snarled viciously. “I toldja to shut the fuck up and here ya are tryin’ to whine about somethin’! I said to shut the fuck UP!” As his voice rose in rage on the last syllable, he swung back and delivered a massive roundhouse punch square to the boy’s jaw.

The punk’s head rocked back as his body flailed from the force of the blow. Poised on his knees, Joe grunted in pleasure as the involuntary movements worked the cunt’s guts around the sensitive head of his shaft. The slut’s own tool, violently bobbing with the rest of his body, spattered them both with a fine rain of precum.

The sadist observed with sick erotic pleasure the way the faggot’s eyes rolled back and his eyelids fluttered as he trembled on the edge of consciousness. As the traumatized teen struggled to stay awake, he coughed up a gout of blood; he was too stunned to realize that he’d spat out one of his canine teeth.

When Noah finally came back to himself, he’d had his epiphany. He was saved. He was truly ready to give up sin in all its forms and surrender himself to his Lord. He was convinced of the error of his ways and deeply repentant of them.

Problem was, it was a little too late. Joe made that perfectly clear.

Leaning forward, he wrapped his huge strong paws around the teen’s pale, fragile throat and began to squeeze—slowly at first, but inexorably nonetheless. “G’wan and pray, you useless little bible-thumping faggot—it ain’t gonna help ya, you disgusting cumsucker. Time to die, cunt. You ready to meet yer maker? Cause when ya do, you’re gonna be full of cum!”

In a deep red sea of pain, Noah heard the words but didn’t comprehend them. He was just a soft suburban teen; he hadn’t had the chance to recover from the brutal assault before his air was cut off—utterly and completely.

Instinctively, the lithe punk began to struggle violently, his hands clawing at Joe’s, trying to pry them away from his neck while his slim, firm legs kicked and flailed wildly. His heels drummed on the bed, his flexing feet scraping at the sheets and twisting his white socks.

Noah opened his eyes—well, his right eye; the left side of his face was battered and swollen beyond recognition—and with tears welling out, tried to beg and plead for mercy. He’d never do it again, dear lord, please save me I’ll never look at another boy again I promise…

But no words were coming out. And somewhere in the throbbing drumbeat of torment that had become his world, he was slowly becoming aware of a new pain—that of choking to death.

Now his movements weren’t instinctual. They weren’t necessarily controlled; they were born out of the frenzied panic that seized the little faggot’s soul.

The kid wasn’t heavily muscled, but he was no weakling and the fear of death gave an extra impetus to his desperation. Clawing madly at his own throat, he soon realized the futility of the gesture and began tugging at Joe’s strong, burly arms. As the youth’s legs thrashed, they slapped wetly against the alpha’s pumping, sweat-streaked torso. His left foot caught in the a fold of the fitted sheet and pulled it away from the mattress; as his leg recoiled involuntarily, the sock came off in the fold, leaving the boy’s bare foot exposed, toes curling as he died.

“Yer gonna die on my motherfuckin’ cock, you homo cunt,” Joe growled like a feral beast as he raped and strangled the teen. “How’s it feel? Does it hurt? Huh? Does it, you worthless sack of shit? Go on and pray, little boy, but I’m your God now. I’m the one who decides when you die and how much it’s gonna hurt.”

He paused for a moment to admire the look of stunned shock on the punk’s face (at least, what was left of it). He knew the meat had heard—and more importantly, had understood. He spat another wad of phlegm into the youth’s mauled face and spoke again, this time in a low whisper, cold and sharp like a steel blade.

“Here’s a secret, fag—it’s gonna hurt. A lot. More than you can possibly imagine. And the more it hurts you, the more I’m gonna spunk when you finally die, you useless cumdump. Just so you know, you sick homo scum. Just so you know you’re getting exactly what you deserve.”

And with that, he squeezed harder, feeling the cunt’s flexible esophagus constrict beneath his hands. He dug his fingernails into the tender flesh on the back of the unfortunate boy’s neck, so he could get better traction with which to throttle the punk-ass queerboy.

Noah knew now beyond any doubt that he was experiencing Hell—he was being given a literal foretaste of the torture he’d endure for eternity. The burning in his head, the excruciating visehold on his throat, the pounding anguish in his ass…oh God…he’d wanted to get fucked and was gonna be sodomized by the Devil forever…and worse, he was gonna be found like this!

Everyone was gonna think he was a disgusting pervert, a child-molesting sodomite—Momma, Daddy—oh God, Daddy—even Archie, the youth minister…he’d been at Archie’s today and seen the way Archie’d started at his crotch; oh fuck he shoulda stayed there…

The once-virginal teenage slipped in and out of coherence in his terror, but never slackened his struggle to break free. His frantic, questing hands continually sought some sort of hold on his killer’s rock-hard body in an attempt to have some kind of impact.

Everywhere Noah’s hands landed, though, they slid across sweaty, hard, firm flesh; the only thing the flailing kid was able to grab ahold of was the stud’s thick, wiry chest hair. Without even thinking, Noah snatched a handful and yanked it out in a paroxysm of terror and pain.

“Goddam motherfucker!” Joe howled in pain-ignited anger. Clenching his huge left hand around the boy’s throat, he freed his right hand and drove it three more times into the dying faggot’s face, each blow landing with a wet thudding sound—the last one with a moist crunch when Noah’s nose was broken.

Without missing a single rhythmic stoke of his long shaft, Joe wrapped his hand back around the meat’s neck and kept squeezing. He could feel the head of his dick deep inside the thrashing youth’s guts. The way the slut’s innards had stroked the swollen, sensitive head of his tool while the boy was being beaten had been fantastic.

“Yeah, dude, that’s what ya need, huh? You like it to hurt, huh, you fuckin’ pig? Was that the problem, you weren’t in enough pain to work my cock? Fuck, man ya shoulda said so—we can fix that right now, fuck yeah!”

With that, Joe slowly increased the pressure on Noah’s neck, this time digging his thumbs into the miserable boy’s Adam’s apple. The sadistic stud grinned as he felt the cartilage start to give way under the force he applied.

Noah was beyond thought. He was in a world of physical sensations that had been previously unconceivable to him, as much as he’d heard of the torments of Hell. This pain couldn’t last for eternity; there’d be nothing left of him but a hollow screaming shell. He was being split open from the inside out; he was still aware of the alpha’s cock reaming his rectum, pulling and tearing at his intestines like a plunger. His face was black and swollen; between the beatings and the choking, it looked like a rotten gourd. He couldn’t see it, but he could feel it, pulpy and pulsating with pain.

The excruciating agony of his throat was the worst, though. His windpipe was crushed almost completely flat and the way the top’s thumbs were grinding into his vocal cords hurt so bad Noah began convulsing involuntarily as his stomach tried instinctively to retch.

The grinning sadist tightened his grip yet again as his strapping, powerful body bore down on the helpless teen. The sleazy overheated motel room was redolent with a miasma of sweat, smoke and mansex, making an almost visible haze in the air. The sounds of mansex filled the air, too—the increasing tempo to the creaking of the bed, the swift slapping sounds of hardcore fucking, the deep, vital grunts of two males locked bodily together in intensity and lust.

The fact that one of the males was dying only added to the intensity. And the lust.

Even Noah felt the lust. He felt it as a hitherto-unknown source of agony. His dick had been hard enough to hurt before, but now it was electrifying—it seemed as if a white-hot rod of steel had been jammed up through his ass into his cock, extending it in flaming agony the further it penetrated.

Joe felt the lust, too, both his own and Noah’s He felt the meat’s deathpig lust as the cunt’s thick purple cock slapped against his belly, still leaving a thick trail of erotic slime in his fur, even during the throes of death.

He felt his own lust as the homo’s thick bloodied lips parted, releasing a torrent of foamy drool. He felt it as the choking teen’s tongue, as swollen and purple as his dick, slowly emerged from his blackened, distorted face.

For Noah, there was no heaven, no Hell anymore. There wasn’t even any Noah; too much of his brain had been starved of oxygen for too long. The brain damage was irreversible. Not everything was gone, though.

The brain stem remained, able to feel sensation and basic emotion. What emerged was the primal submissive beast, submitting to and being marked by the dominant alpha.

The brain-dead teen was convulsing violently, his colon clenching the cruel killer’s shaft in an instinctive attempt to milk out the testosterone and be marked as belonging to the alpha. The hormones flooding the queerboy’s body overstimulated this response.

Joe had never had a dying cumdump stroke his rod so vigorously; he’d been right to go for the virginal churchboy; they always wanted dick in the worst way.

And Joe specialized in giving dick in the worst way.

He held onto the bucking teen like he was breaking a bull, letting the natural rhythms of convulsion and death beat his swollen shaft to orgasm. The young homo’s cock was still erect and visibly pulsing as Joe felt intense, overflowing pressure building in his puckered sack.

He was gonna unload. “Guess you were an ok cumrag, faggot,” he grunted as his body jolted in violent release.

The hulking, muscular killer clenched his hands tightly in his first instinctive reaction to shooting his wad; the loud crunching sound of crushed cartilage filled the room. The quivering boy also reacted involuntarily—it was the final blast of pain needed to override the teen deathpig’s nervous system and trigger an unnaturally prolonged orgasm.

The youth’s overabundant hormones had swamped his body in excess testosterone. It had led him to seeking its release in dangerous situations—and now, it led his dying body to ejaculate for nearly ninety seconds straight, the last spark of his life fading with an awareness of white-hot molten steel flooding his anus and pumping out through his erect shaft; he was merely a conduit for the boiling seed of life…

As thick, ropy strands of semen splashed across Joe’s broad, furry chest, he cried out in rage and hate, pumping his thick, creamy jizz as deep into the worthless kid’s body as he could. Shifting his powerful hands up Noah’s crushed neck, he clamped down again, this time where he could place his thumbs under the angle of the kid’s jaw.

“Ok, motherfucker, time to go,” he grunted. As another orgasm wracked his powerful body, his hands clenched, driving his thumbs upwards.

There was a loud cracking sound as the brawny sadist popped the teen fag’s head off his spine, snapping the topmost vertebra and sending bone shards slashing into the spinal column.

Noah had already emptied his balls and his mind; there was nothing left but a sweaty cum-filled meatsack until the sudden blast of massive trauma to his central nervous system sent random signals thought his taut, shuddering corpse.

One of these hit the scrotum and, even in death, contracted the muscles and caused the young queer’s cock to send up a final jet of spunk, the hot pearly liquid splattering on the underside of Joe’s jaw as the older man grunted and cried out, spewing his last boiling wad into the kid’s torn and slashed rectum.

Even after he’d pumped his last drop of semen into the corpse’s shuddering guts, Joe continued to fuck the quivering body, his massive shaft still erect and tearing into the convulsing pig’s colon. “Fuck yeah, dude, I’m your God now, huh? I gave you everything ya ever wanted, huh, ya faggot? I gave ya hot fuckin’ mansex, I gave ya pain and death—who’s yer daddy now, huh, cunt?”

Spitting in contempt on the twitching corpse, Joe pulled himself out of the boy’s well-worn fuckhole. His dick slid out in a slimy pool of cum and blood that instantly stained the sheets under the slut’s quivering anus; it was obvious that the dead boy had been violently fucked.

Still sweating and shaking with pleasurable exertion, Joe staggered back across the room to his jacket. He fished the smokes and lighter out of the pocket and lit one as he leaned back and took a moment to chill.

On the bed, Noah was chilling too; in fact, he was cooling by the minute. But his corpse was still fresh and limber; random nerves still fired down the mangled spinal column, making the body continue to shudder and twitch. Even now, the toes on the teen’s bare foot continued to curl and spasm in death. The other foot, with the white athletic sock wrapped tightly around it, kicked jaggedly across the rumpled, stained sheets.

The punk’s smooth, flat abdomen still heaved convulsively, smeared with coagulating pools of semen, all his own. Some of it was glazing his grotesquely distorted face. His black, swollen cheeks were stained with a white scum where his foamy panicked drool had dried to a crust as he’d died.

Joe inhaled the nicotine deeply. Even though he’d completely emptied his balls, the teenage faggot’s corpse was so hot, his dick was still throbbing as he looked at it.

He knew he had to go, though. This cunt had made a lot of noise. He needed to get away fairly quickly. Tossing his smoldering butt onto the boy’s smooth chest (where it hissed out in a puddle of jizz), he stepped into the bathroom and cleaned himself up, using a wet washcloth and soap to remove all traces of the dead pansy’s spunk. Tossing the towel he used, along with the washcloth, into the toilet, he returned to the bedroom after fastening up his fly and slipped on his thermal shirt and leather jacket.

He was vaguely aware that the teen homo was still twitching, but he didn’t really give a shit anymore. A quick glance outside showed that no one was around, and he made it to his car and out of the motel lot unseen.

The corpse was found the next morning, but without ID (since Noah parents hadn’t allowed him a driver’s license yet), it went to the city morgue. Later the same day, Noah’s folks frantically reported him missing, out in the suburb where they lived.

It was the better part of a week before anyone connected the reamed-out, cum-soaked corpse found beaten, raped and strangled in a cheap motel with the straight-A bible school virgin Noah. When the connection was made, the outcry in the media was loud and shrill, demanding vengeance from every corner.

It was trouble, of course; the Trucker was intelligent enough to realize that right away.

If nothing else, the timing would have told him that. Not very likely that it’d be a coincidence that someone was banging at the door minutes after he’d wasted a bitch. He wasn’t prepared to deal with anyone but he was cold-blooded enough that it didn’t worry him much. But after dragging the twitching corpse into the bathroom, the Trucker had stripped—he’d wanted to clean himself off before hoisting the body into the tub, since he planned to leave it in there when he left.

Stepping out of the bathroom, he closed the door behind him, leaving the shower running. He strode towards the door, totally nude, his dick still erect, jutting out in front of him, thick and purple. With the shower running behindff the closed bathroom door, he could say he’d just had sex and the slut was cleaning up.

After all, with the door closed, the corpse on the bathroom floor couldn’t be seen.

And the Trucker decided he wanted to answer the door nude. He was well aware of his imposing physique and the impression it made on others. A little intimidation always came in handy in a situation like this.

And while he hadn’t been caught with a raped and murdered boy in a motel room before, he’d had some close calls. That last kid he’d done on his prior route, the one before the Marine. His older brother had walked in before he was finished. And then—

The Trucker grinned at the memory as he worked the locks on the door, only slightly aware that his reminiscences had made his cock start oozing precum again.

Whatever he had expected, it wasn’t a gun.

The man holding it was familiar. And a cop—a trooper…it clicked. That cunt he’d picked up on the side of the road; the one he’d tossed in a ditch like the garbage he was—this was the cop that had come up to his truck while he was snuffing the faggot.

For the first time in his life, the Trucker was genuinely caught off guard. He was careful and very, very good at what he did. He was truly stunned to find that he’d been traced like this.

The Trooper, for his part, was just as stunned. With his sidearm out and at the ready, he’d started in gleeful ecstasy, recognizing the face of the man he’d hunted for so long. But as he turned his attention downward and took in the Trucker’s body, glistening with sweat from his recent exertions, he was subsumed in a rising tide of lust. And that huge dripping shaft dangling out in front…

The Trucker saw the Trooper’s gaze slide down his body; he also notice the tentpole rising in the crotch of the tight khaki slacks the Trooper was wearing. The young cop looked back up into the Trucker’s face—he was about four inches shorter than the older man—his eyes glittering with desire.

“Get back in that room, motherfucker,” he hissed. “Quiet and slow, asshole. I can put a hole the size of my fist in your guts and claim self-defense and ain’t no one in this part of the state gonna question it, so move. NOW.” He motioned with the large nickel-plated handgun—it looked like a .45.

As the Trucker carefully stepped backward into the room, he felt every predatory sense he possessed as a hunter engage. He knew that his life was in danger, but there was more going on here.

The Trooper entered the room at the same snail’s pace with which the Trucker backed away. Once he was fully inside the room, he kicked back, his high black leather boot connecting with the door and swinging it shut, the automatic lock engaging with a loud click.

The deathly silence that enveloped the room belied the vortex of manscent and testosterone that swirled as two expert killers sized up each other.

The Trooper slowly circled to the left, inching towards the bathroom with a careful sidestep motion. He stood directly in front of the door and reached behind him to grab the doorknob, never removing his eyes—or the barrel of the gun—from the Trucker until he got the door open. Then he took a quick glance into the steam-filled room, but the gun never wavered.

His head was turned for only a split second and the Trucker was too far away to reach him in that time. He didn’t even try. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t looking for some weak spot to attack. He was in deep shit; that was obvious. And yet, somehow, the thought of arrest never crossed his mind. That wasn’t the point here, and he knew it.

If he hadn’t, the look on the Trooper’s face as he turned back would have been a good clue. The salacious grin, the evil leer twisting his young, handsome face, were the first hint; the swift enlargement of the bulge in his groin was the second. The cop must be hung like a horse. A well-hung horse, at that.

The Trooper chuckled. “Damn, dude, ya did a good job on him. Not as good as the last one, but better than the others.”

There was a short pause, then the Trucker replied with a brief question. “How long?”

“I found your first boytoy where ya dropped him off—in that gully. Or was he the first? Where’d ya get those dogtags, asswipe? You in the military? Doubt it. But I do remember an alert about a Marine got himself raped and strangled several days ago.”

“What you’re gonna do, jackoff, is get over there against the radiator,” snapped the Trooper. “Move it, motherfucker!”

The Trucker moved back to the radiator in the far corner of the room, on the far side of the nightstand, as the young man approached, reaching down to open a pocket on his duty belt and slip out a pair of handcuffs.

The Trooper pressed forward, forcing the Trucker up against the wall. Standing face to face with the older man, he had to look slightly up, the four-inch height differential forced him to look slightly upwards. But he wasn’t too short to jam the muzzle of the handgun painfully against the Trucker’s temple…

At this close range, the Trucker could see that his buzz-cut hair had a reddish tint and the five o’clock shadow starting to darken his smooth cheeks was red-gold. His blue eyes were colder than ice; they glittered like chips of quartz.

It was unmistakable. The Trucker had seen it dozens of times before. They were glittering with lust.

Before he’d had the chance to process this information, the Trooper had whipped out the cuffs and bound him to the radiator with the swiftness of a well-practiced maneuver.

Then the cop backed towards the bed. Setting his gun down on the disheveled, semen-soaked sheets, he slowly began unbuttoning his short-sleeve khaki dress shirt. He slipped it off, revealing his simple white cotton t-shirt tucked into his trousers. It stretched so tightly over his broad pecs that his large nipples stood out far enough to cast small shadows.

The Trucker stood still, trying to decide how to deal with the situation. He knew better than to show emotion; he was a master of using a chink in emotional armor to break his victim’s spirit. And that, more than anything else, was what gave him pause. He was facing someone who might be his equal.

Not all of his prey were twinks; he’d offed some pretty strong dudes. But they were sluts and whores, taken by surprise. He might get the jump momentarily on this guy, but the cop would be quick to react.

Had he killed before? That was the question the Trucker had to figure out. In a struggle to the death, there are certain factors to take into account. There are unexpected movements from the dying pig, unexpected urges and desires in the killer…

If the hot young stud slowly stripping in front of him hadn’t killed, the Trucker still had an advantage. But if he was an experienced predator, this could be bad.

Very, very bad.

The Trooper sat gingerly on the bed, avoiding the wet spots. Crossing his legs, one at a time, he pulled off his high, glossy leather boots and set them at the foot of the bed. Standing back up, he slowly unbuckled his dress belt and unfastened his pants, leaving his duty belt still clasped. He glanced down as he did so, but after confirming that the slacks still clung to his hips, almost immediately turned his flinty eyes up to leer at the Trucker.

Despite his resolve, the Trucker was unable to prevent the obvious swelling of his tool, the increased amount of precum bubbling out of his thick purple head. The Trooper’s expression of malicious triumph was as maddening as his body was mesmerizing; it was as if his personality changed to match the look on his face.

The cop’s lascivious grin gave his handsome, almost model-worthy face an impish look. When he broke eye contact to unfasten the catch on his duty belt, though, his face fell back into an unpleasant arrogant expression.

The younger man placed his duty belt on the nightstand but the weight of the baton threw it off balance and it slid to the floor. With a muttered curse, the hard-bodied rogue lawman reached down and unsnapped the loop that held the two-foot aluminum baton in place. He kicked out with his foot, his white sock bright against the black side handle, shoving the weapon away from him (although no closer to the Trucker). Snatching up the belt, he tossed it back onto the nightstand, where it landed loudly—there were several more items still in it. The Trucker could see a small container of pepper spray and another pair of cuffs, among other things.

The Trooper dropped his pants and immediately gathered up his uniform, carefully folding both shirt and slacks before laying them on the dresser.

As he moved, his firm, muscular body flexed in his t-shirt, gray boxers and calf-high white athletic socks. His bulging thighs and biceps were smooth, but his forearms and calves shimmered with a faint reddish-gold haze from a light furry fuzz. Almost irrelevantly, the Trucker noticed the sharp, defined line where the cop’s buzz-cut hair ended on the back of his head.

Turning towards his captive, the Trooper smiled sardonically in acknowledgement of the effect he was having on the older man. He executed a sort of strip-tease, peeling the t-shirt off his sculpted torso and slowly sliding the boxers down his thick legs, revealing a thick, dripping tube of flesh that nearly equaled the Trucker’s own in size, hanging semi-limply from a bushy mass of strawberry-blond curls.

The Trooper stood with his legs spread, nude except for the socks up his calves, grinning at the Trucker. “Like what ya see, asshole? Bet ya do, you fuckin’ psycho faggot.” He twisted to the left, snatching his huge .45 off the bed before advancing on his prisoner.

He was good. The Trucker hadn’t seen him palm the key to the cuffs. The younger man had almost managed to get them unlocked before the Trucker caught on. But for a moment—just the briefest moment—the Trooper needed both hands to work the key. He never let go of the gun, using his thumb and the last two fingers to brace the cuff itself, but the barrel was no longer pointed right at the Trucker.

That was when the cuffs popped open, freeing the older man’s hand. The Trucker was just as calm and cold as the cop, still in control despite his lust. His wits were about him, enough, at least, to take advantage of this momentary break.

In the blink of an eye, he knocked the gun out of the young cop’s hand; it clattered on top of the table in front of the window, skittering across the surface before sliding off into the corner behind the chair.

Both men stared at the corner, processing the fact that the weapon was out of the immediate reach of both. Then they looked at each other, each sizing up the other in the realization that this was going to be a fight to the death.

But death, when it came for the loser, would be a welcome relief, a blessed escape from agony and humiliation.

Two well-built, muscular men regarded each other in full awareness that only one of them was going to leave the room alive. And the one that didn’t was going to suffer a brutal rape and unimaginable torture.

Each one kept a razor-sharp eye contact with the other, seeking any sign, any signal of a weak spot. They circled slowly, unconsciously moving clockwise—the space between the bed and the wall just barely big enough for them to remain out of arm’s reach while doing so.

They lunged simultaneously.

They struggled in silence at first, a silence fraught with desperate tension and lust, a silence punctuated by deep grunts of physical exertion as they grappled. The Trucker’s hands were clenched around the Trooper’s bulging, flexing biceps as he tried to force him back. The younger man was doing the same with his hands placed on his adversary’s forearms, just below the elbow.

They circled again, tightly gripped in each other’s arms. When they made eye contact, they were only inches apart; the expressions of contemptuous lust was obvious. An impartial observer might have thought of Greco-Roman wrestling—except that both of these guys were so hard they were swordfighting, their cocks slapping together as they manhandled each other.

Then the Trooper twisted in the Trucker’s arms. Before the older man could react, the cop jerked his leg in a swift sidesweep and knocked his adversary’s feet out from under him. The Trucker hit the floor on his back, knocking the wind out of him. Before he could get it back, the solidly-muscled younger man threw himself down hard on top of him.

Now the Trucker had no air at all. As he fought to breathe, he saw the cop’s balled fist draw back and he knew it was aimed at his face.

Damned if he was gonna let it land there.

The Trooper released his roundhouse piledriver—back in the Academy, he’d knocked a combat instructor out cold with this move—expecting to end the battle. But the older man managed to get his hand up and deflect the blow. The Trooper had put too much force into it and overbalanced himself, falling forward onto the Trucker.

The Trucker had a snapshot visual of the scene: the rogue cop was lying face-down on top of him, his head next to the Trucker’s on the right side. His neck would have been directly on the Trucker’s neck if his right arm—the one he’d used to throw the punch—wasn’t between them.

He certainly wasn’t going to pass up this opportunity. Wrapping a thick, muscular arm around the younger man’s neck, the Trucker applied as much pressure as he could.

It took a moment for the Trooper to realize the change in power structure. His first thought was to regain control, so he pushed back up off the predator. Well aware of the danger he was in, he felt a twinge of fear when he heard the older man gasp. It meant he was getting his air—and his wits—back.

And right now he had control over the Trooper. He was larger, too. This wasn’t just dangerous, this was deadly. He needed to keep calm and find a way out.

By twisting his head to one side, the Trooper managed to find a space in the crook of the Trucker’s arm where he could free his windpipe enough to inhale slight amounts of air.

The gun was on the far side of the Trucker. The Trooper lunged in the other direction, trying to reach his duty belt, even if he had to physically drag the larger man with him. He was strong enough to do it.

Scrabbling desperately at the carpet, the Trooper inched his way forward. The Trucker felt the younger man’s hard body twisting and struggling in his arms. Glancing up, he realized the cop’s fingers had come within reach of the baton.

The weapon would tip the balance of power back into the Trooper’s favor. They both knew it, and both reacted accordingly. The Trooper was able to grasp the side handle and actually pick up the baton. The Trucker drew his leg up under himself and pushed up, physically lifting both of them off the floor. As he gained his feet, he managed to keep the cop off his.

Fighting for balance, the Trooper was unable to aim his blows. He swung the baton forcefully but wildly. A couple of random blows struck the Trucker—not seriously, but painfully on the shoulder and across the chest.

Enraged, the Trucker grabbed at the baton, but the Trooper was swinging it too erratically. It was clear to the older man that he needed to disable his opponent as soon as possible or he would be in serious shit.

His strong, bulging arm was still wrapped around the Trooper’s neck. The Trucker twisted violently to the side and bent down, forcing the younger man to bend at the waist as well.

Drawing back his free arm, the Trucker began slamming his fist into the Trooper’s handsome face, repeatedly driving blow after brutal blow into the dazed cop’s face.

The Trooper was in pain and afraid—quite possibly for the first time in his life. His position of authority cowed most of the guys he’d come up against, and he’d been stronger and faster than the remaining few, overpowering them quickly.

This—this wasn’t supposed to be happening. He flailed with the baton, frantically trying to land a blow on his assailant while his face was being beaten to hamburger.

The Trucker had had enough. He spun the young man around so he stood, stunned and swaying, facing him. Looping his arm back, he pounded his fist with full force into the Trooper’s jaw, sending the cop flying backwards. He hit he bed and flipped over onto his back, losing his hold on the baton.

But the Trooper wasn’t out. Despite the pain in his swelling face, his training kicked in. Bringing his feet up and twisting slightly to the right, he managed to roll off the foot of the bed, putting some space between himself and the Trucker—a brief respite that wouldn’t last long, but might last long enough. He was young and strong and could recover quickly.

Shifting his balance quickly, like a feral cat, the lithe, muscular cop crouched at the foot of the bed. Noticing that the baton was on the floor not far away, he moved his arm towards it—slowly, so he wouldn’t alert the Trucker, who couldn’t see the baton from where he was standing.

Just as his fingers grasped the handle, the Trucker lunged. The younger stud leaped up from his crouching position, swinging the weapon and hoping to blindside his opponent. He did—not as completely as he’d hoped; he’d been hoping to go upside the psycho fucker’s head, but the hard-bodied older man turned slightly at the last moment and took the aluminum baton hard across the thick bicep of his dominant arm.

The Trooper had put a lot of energy in the blow—if he’d hit the dead twink in the bathroom that hard, he’d have shattered the bone. He didn’t come anywhere near close to doing that to the Trucker, but it was still a stunning, painful blow.

The Trucker was thrown off his game for a moment—and again, the younger man was able to use that brief pause to his advantage. Swiftly slipping behind the momentarily disabled man, the Trooper swung the baton out horizontally in front of the Trucker at neck level before catching the far end in the crook of his other elbow.

He immediately started to squeeze, garroting the older man with the shaft. The Trucker knew instantly what was happening. The little punk cop was trying to choke him into submission. He wasn’t gonna kill him, not yet—just weaken him to the point where he would be unable to resist whatever the Trooper wanted to do to him.

And he knew what the Trooper would do to him. It was the same thing he’d do to the younger man if he could manage to take him down.

The Trucker fought it. The crushing pain in his throat increased as he struggled harder, feeling the Trooper’s hard smooth chest tightly pressed against his back. Jerking his head back, his cheek brushed that of his assailant, his dark scruff scraping against the cop’s golden fuzz.

His ears were ringing and his vision was starting to dim—and again, he knew exactly what was happening. It wasn’t gonna happen to him, goddammit. This fucking cocksucker wasn’t gonna fuck him.

He twisted violently to the left, then abruptly reversed course, throwing himself back with his elbow out and jamming it into the Trooper’s abdomen. The younger man’s belly was smooth, firm, and flat, but it wasn’t strong enough to resist the brutal blow. With a loud, breathy grunt, the cop dropped the baton. It tumbled to the far corner of the bed, momentarily out of reach.

Both men fell gasping to their knees, the Trucker’s hand at his throat as he, starved for oxygen, inhaled greedily. Next to him—within arm’s reach, in fact—the Trooper was doubled up, his forehead almost touching the floor. In his crouching position, his calves bulged in the tight white tube socks.

Out of the corner of his right eye, the Trucker caught sight of the cop’s duty belt still lying on top of the nightstand. Forcing his bruised windpipe to relax and open, he gasped loudly and dove for the webbed tactical belt—there were things he could use on it. At the last second, the Trooper, alerted by the sound, noticed the Trucker’s lunge and willed himself upright to block his opponent.

They both got their hands on the belt simultaneously. Their eyes met for a moment; the pause could only have lasted a fraction of a second but the electric sexual tension between the nude muscular men crackled almost audibly. The flinty blue eyes of the younger man gleamed with rage, fear and lust—or were those reflections from the Trucker’s equally icy glare? It was impossible to tell, both muscular bodies, heaving with exertion and slick with sweat, exuded testosterone and manscent in a fog of hate-fueled lust.

The Trooper was younger, and that was to his advantage. He had slightly more energy and slightly faster reflexes.

What he didn’t have was experience. He’d killed before—the Trucker had figured that out by now—but not often. He’d probably taken out a few rentboys and drug addicts, youthful offenders who didn’t expect a sexual assault from that angle and were utterly unable to resist in any case, given the overpowering might of weapons the Trooper carried.

He wasn’t used to a battle for his life, and he was afraid. The Trucker was afraid, too; he knew exactly what was at stake. But the Trucker had enough control over himself to deal with the fear and move on. The Trooper got careless. In his panic, he telegraphed his moves with his eyes, glancing down at his arm before swinging it at the Trucker.

The older man took the hint and used it. As the blond youth, hair dark with sweat, jerked his fist at the Trucker’s face, the hard killer pulled his head back and brought his hand up against the Trooper’s head, hard, fast and strong.

Before the young cop knew what was happening, the Trucker had slammed his head down on the nightstand, completely stunning the hard-bodied youth. The Trooper grunted in pain, disoriented by the blow. The Trucker grabbed the duty belt and quickly began fumbling at the catch of the strap holding the pepper spray.

Suddenly, the belt was jerked out of his hands. Groaning audibly, the Trooper had managed to snatch the dangling end of the belt. Clinging to it, he fell to his knees, using his weight to yank it away from his assailant.

The Trucker looked down at the cop who swayed woozily on his knees. The cop looked wearily up at him and broke into a weary smile—and the Trucker noticed the punk had managed to get the pepper spray out.

There was no time to think. Again, the Trucker’s experience—aided by his reflexes and strength—held the advantage. He literally fell on the boy, his left knee striking the Trooper’s right arm hard enough to knock the pepper spray loose. The small canister rolled out of reach under the bed. At the same time, the older man grasped the killer cop’s head with both hands, slamming the psycho stud into the nightstand laterally. The blond muscled youth slumped unconscious to the floor.

The battle was over. Time for the games to begin.

The Trucker took a few moments to recover. He was a hard, strong man but this kid had been nearly his physical equal. He’d almost been beat. He’d almost been the meat. This fucker—this goddam cocksucking motherfucker!

The rage boiled over in him; he vented it by spitting on the cop’s head as the younger man lolled limply on the floor. The Trucker kicked the punk’s head, knocking it to one side. As he ground the sole of his foot into the slack face of the senseless youth, his cock began to swell and throb.

“Stupid piece of shit, thought you were gonna fuck me?” he hissed in a vindictive whisper. ”Oh fuck, dude, I got a first-class reservation in hell for you. Let’s get ya ready for the trip.”

Bending down, the Trucker grabbed the Trooper’s limp form under the arms and manhandled the firm, sweat-slicked body onto the bed. The older man’s rigid shaft pressed against the firm insensate torso, leaving a snail-like trail of clear precum across the inert cop’s smooth skin. He dropped the punk on his back on the bed like a sack of potatoes.

The duty belt was still on the floor. Retrieving it, the Trucker unsnapped the pocket holding the backup cuffs. He didn’t know where the key was, and he didn’t care. And by the time he was done, the Trooper would be long past caring whether his hands were cuffed or not.

Before then, however—remembering the fight the Trooper put up, the Trucker made sure his hands were firmly cuffed to each other around the tarnished faux-brass headboard. The cop lay splayed out, a muscular blond god bound for sacrifice.

The older man sneered down at his captive. “You fuckin’ worthless piece of shit,” he jeered, “yer gonna wake up to your worst nightmare.” Placing his large strong hands on the youth’s firm but supine form, the Trucker slowly caressed the hard, smooth chest. Sliding his hands down the sweaty flat stomach, he curled his fingers in the golden nest of pubes at the base of the Trooper long, flaccid shaft.

Digging his hands into the short wiry mass of hair, the Trucker sneered and yanked, hard. The punk cop was still out cold, but even in his unconsciousness, his thick cock jerked and throbbed. The older man, with his greater experience, knew what that meant. His malicious grin widened in anticipation. This psycho fucking cunt was into pain, all right—both giving and getting.

Well, good. Maybe tonight wasn’t gonna to be a total loss for him, the Trucker thought. Although, he had to admit, the well-built youth himself was gonna be a total loss. More precum dripped out of his pulsing dick.

Regaining some control, he continued fondling the cop’s body, running his hands down the thickly-muscled legs to the calves, where smooth skin gave way to the white tube socks just below the knee. Suddenly, the handsome blond shuddered and moaned, his eyelids fluttering as awareness began painfully to return.

“Welcome back, you sick fucking bastard,” the Trucker jeered, “ya ready for some fun? C’mon, fuckmeat, wakey, wakey. I wanna hear ya scream.” Rearing back his large hand, he bitchslapped the helpless youth, his palm leaving a large red imprint on the cop’s cheek.

The younger man blinked blearily and stared at the Trucker, his face a smooth dazed mask. As his memory returned, the color drained out of his face and was replaced with horror. Even as he began to jerk his arms frantically—and futilely—against his restraints, it was clear that he was fully aware of the situation.

Still, the sadistic older dude thought, nothing wrong with filling in the details. After all, he was sure, the budding serial killer would have some interest in his own demise. Might as well let him in on the fun—eventually.

First things first. The Trucker wanted to be fully inserted in the punk before he could tense up and fight the D. He wanted the strapping young man to struggle on his cock, but he wanted it all the way down his shaft.

Forcing the blond stud’s legs abruptly apart, he lunged forward, spearing the blond’s pulsing pink sphincter with virtually no warning. Before the writhing cop could react, the Trucker’s massive tool had plunged deep into his guts like a harpoon, the only lube being the slimy layer of precum oozing from the alpha’s cock—and blood, as the Trooper’s ass muscle was torn during the assault.

The Trooper opened his mouth wide and shrieked. The Trucker didn’t care. His usual caution had deserted him in his blinding anger against this arrogant piece of shit who dared to try to rape him. And in the back of his mind, he knew that the adjacent rooms were empty from when he’d brought that twink back—the one who was stiffening on the bathroom floor…

“Oh yeah! That’s it, cunt, lemme know how much ya like my cock, you fuckin’ psycho faggot! Go ahead and try to push it out, just like that, yeah, bitch—damn, I can feel your fuckhole strokin’ my shaft. Goddam, you’re a worthless excuse for a cop but you’re a great fuck—and we ain’t even started the fun stuff yet!”

Despite his agony, this remark caught the Trooper’s attention. His large blue eyes had been squeezed shut in pain, but now they opened wide. He wasn’t gonna think about the “fun”. He knew what he’d been planning to do to the killer stud when he got control—and he was sure this dude was gonna be even more extreme.

The Trucker noted the blond cop’s fear and grinned. The dead Marine’s dogtags danced and jingled before the captive youth’s eyes as the alpha continued to the thrust and pump, his hard, sweaty body in constant fluid motion.

“Ya get it, boy?” the Trucker hissed. “You’re my bitch now. I’m gonna use you like a cheap cumrag, you fuckin’ pervert homo cop. Ya like my shaft up your hole, ya piece of shit? Yeah? Then work it, cunt, work it like ya love it—or I’ll make ya work it.”

He leaned down over the Trooper, close enough to see the individual beads of sweat on the punk’s forehead, and whispered, “and if I make ya, it’s gonna fuckin’ hurt. I promise. Got it?”

The blond cop nodded, quickly and jerkily. He damn well knew it was gonna hurt. But he’d take the pain, he’d take all the pain if it meant a chance of getting out alive…

The Trucker chuckled. He had enough experience to know what was running through the fuckmeat’s mind. The hot hard youth would submit until he realized that there was no hope of survival. The Trucker, of course, would make sure that by the time his victim realized the truth, he’d have been tortured beyond the point of effective resistance.

Stupid fucker shoulda known better. He’d done this before. The Trucker was certain of it. Good—he was gonna enjoy this one so fucking much. Most of his victims hadn’t thought about death to any great extent; this one was just as turned on by it as he was.

This guy knew exactly what was happening to him as it happened. He didn’t just know what was being done to him, he knew why. He knew which physical response was associated with which form of trauma.

The Trooper had nowhere to hide. Unless his psyche shattered under the stress, he would be excruciatingly aware of the purpose behind every act of pain.

Placing his hands on the young cop’s broad, smooth, sweaty pecs, the Trucker braced himself as he ramped up the speed of his thrusting. His thick, engorged shaft plunged deep into the blond youth’s torn fuckhole in a split second; the swollen purple head caught against the rectal wall, scraping it agonizingly as it was viciously withdrawn with the force of a plunger.

The punk cop moaned and squealed in pain that bordered on agony—and pleasure. He was terrified, not just afraid of getting raped and murdered, but of liking the sensation of tortuous agony so much that he assisted with his own death. He couldn’t let it happen, he couldn’t be found like this…

He began to resist. He jerked his hard muscled arms forcefully but futilely against the case-hardened steel cuffs that bound him to the bed. The jingling of the Trucker’s dogtags was drowned out by the clanging sounds of the cuffs against the cheap brass-colored aluminum headboard.

“Get off me, you sick fucking lunatic!” he barked, finding his voice. “You ain’t gonna be the man who takes me down!”

The Trucker smiled gently down into the writhing cop’s face, watching it twist and darken in a rage fueled by fear. The punk could yell all he wanted; nobody could hear him and he had no way out.

Of course, it might not be a bad idea to remind him of the latter fact.

“You’re already down, cunt,” the buff older man whispered. The effect was more chilling than if he’d snarled in anger. “Only question, is how long it’s gonna take you to die on my cock. Your fuckhole ain’t tight enough, you faggot—you been getting’ banged a lot? Bendin’ over and takin’ the dick during them all-night orgies at the trooper barracks? Bet ya let every one of them cops ride yer ass, huh, you worthless homo slut?”

The Trooper rose to the bait, kicking and jerking—and clenching his sphincter. His muscles grew tense in an involuntary rage response, causing him to clamp his colon down on the Trucker’s thick, pulsating shaft. “GET OFF ME YOU SICK FUCK!!!” he screeched, unaware that the horrible intensification of pain in his ass was his own fault.

The Trooper thrashed wildly, his hard body sliding on a sheen of sweat under the Trucker’s hands. The alpha rapist could feel the younger man’s tight pectoral muscles working under his smooth flesh as he struggled uselessly to free himself. His long, thick legs wrapped around the Trucker’s before the cop bent his knees and tried to get his feet up under his assailant’s body to lift him off.

“Stupid piece a’ shit, you should know better than that,” the Trucker snapped harshly before backhanding the Trooper across the face. It was an effective ploy; the pain in his handsome but already bruised face made the youth pause and gave the Trucker time to lay his full weight on top of the cop, using gravity to add momentum to his thrust and jamming his engorged shaft deep inside the Trooper’s guts.

The young blond howled in agony, his mind floundering in such agony that he—almost—didn’t register the sensation of the Trucker’s slick flat belly pressed against his own, both sliding together in warm, erotic contact. There was a scraping pain at each end, though, as the wiry hair on the alpha’s abdomen scoured his skin and the darker pubic hair of the older man tore at his own blond curls.

The cop’s heart constricted in terror when he felt something cold circling his neck. Even though, deep in his dark, twisted soul, he knew how this would end, his conscious mind still expected to break free. He couldn’t die. But if it was starting—

Then he realized that the Trucker’s dogtags had settled on his chest and slid up to his neck. He felt a relief that had no basis in reality and was untinged with the memory of what had happened to the original owner of the tags…

The Trucker, meanwhile, was balls-deep in the Trooper, his huge rod reaming out the punk’s colon. The cop’s sphincter had finally given in and relaxed; the young man was accepting the dick.

And that was so disappointing.

“Yer lettin’ me down, cunt,” he snarled. Gripping the cop’s jaw with excruciating force, he held the Trooper’s face still and spitting into it. “Ya can’t even get fucked right, can ya, you worthless psycho faggot? Your pansy ass won’t even grab my tool anymore—guess you took so many cocks up yer ass you wore it out, huh? What’d ya do, homo, man the gloryhole at the barracks? Gotta get ya tight again, dude.”

Despite his arrogance, his certainty of his own importance, the Trooper whimpered slightly at these words. He knew how the Trucker was gonna get him tight.

It wouldn’t be accurate to say that his life flashed before his eyes—what flashed before them were visions of his own snuffs. There had only been a couple—well, three, if you count that teen who fled into the woods; he shot the punk in the line of duty and only fucked his corpse afterward.

The other two, also young teens, had been more deliberate. He’d found them just out walking around, picking them up on a pretense so he could cuff them and throw them into the back of his car. A quick trip out into the desert, a quick tussle with a helpless kid, “two pumps, a tickle and a squirt”, as they say.

Then he would strangle them slowly. Even though he’d just cum, his dick would get hard again during the snuff. As the kid died, the Trooper would shoot all over him. The body would get shoved into a dry run in the desert; within days there’d be nothing left.

And now it was gonna happen to him. And the deathpig stirred within and started to respond. Even in his fear, the grim promise rumbling deep in the Trucker’s bass voice sent an electric thrill to the base of his cock. As his large shaft stiffened and began to stand erect, the Trooper felt betrayed by his own body.

But he still couldn’t be found like this. Whatever his dick wanted, he couldn’t be humiliated like this—even if he had to humiliate himself now. He faced the Trucker directly, tears filling his bright blue eyes. “Please, man, don’t,” he whispered hoarsely. “I’ll do anything ya want, man just don’t kill me. Ya wanna shit on me? Ya wanna piss in my mouth? I’ll do it all, dude, I’ll do anything you want, please don’t kill me, man, I won’t tell anyone, I swear, dude, fuck, please—“

The youth broke off, sobbing as the older man glared coldly down at him. Sneering slightly, he spit into the cop’s face again, then rose up on his knees, his rod still plugging the Trooper’s rectum. He looked around languidly, taking his time, knowing that escape was impossible. A disturbingly malicious grin formed on his face as he spotted the black webbed duty belt on the nightstand.

The Trooper’s cock was only half-erect when he opened his tear-rimmed eyes. He saw the grin and knew what the Trucker was looking at. He was still soft enough to lose control and have it show.

He pissed on himself. Not a lot, but a couple of golden splashes across his belly that ran off in rivulets to soak into the sheets, already moist with sweat and semen.

The Trucker threw his head back and laughed. Still chuckling, he leaned forward and grabbed the belt. It was thick, about an inch and a half. He knew from experience that the thinner the garrote, the easier it is to strangle someone.

This was gonna be slow. The cop was gonna take a long, long time to die. And best of all—the motherfucker knew it. He understood. To the Trucker, that mattered. He wasn’t just raping the Trooper’s ass, he was raping his mind at the same time.

He held the duty belt in front of the punk’s dazed face. “Ya see this? Wanna see what it feels like around your neck? I sure the fuck do, meat. I bet it’s gonna feel fuckin’ great—for me. For you, it’s gonna hurt like holy fucking hell. And your pain it gonna feel so motherfuckin’ good on my cock. And guess what? If ya make me cum before ya die, I might let ya live. So work my cock, you goddam homo cuntmeat, work it like your life depends on it—cause, trust me, it does.”

The muscled blond cop, confronted with the belt held in front of his face by the Trucker’s muscled arms, regressed into his mind, trying to escape the obvious implications. It required an almost deliberate shutdown of consciousness—a very bad idea. After all, his nervous system was still working perfectly—and with nothing else to focus on, physical sensation became everything.

And everything quickly became nightmarish.

Slowly, almost tenderly, the Trucker leaned forward and draped the belt lightly on the Trooper’s throat. Keeping his eyes tightly closed, the hot young cop turned his head to the left and gulped. He tensed momentarily in fear—not long, but long enough for the older man to feel a certain velvety constriction around his pumping shaft. He grinned again. This one was gonna be good. The meat was both aware and responsive.

“Yeah, pig, you’re gonna love this, ain’t ya?” he whispered. “Fuckin’ homo cop, you liked banging and wastin’ helpless kids and now you’re gonna get to find out what they went through. How ya like that shit, ya sick fuck? Huh? Goddam, lookit yer dick—gettin’ hard already. Can’t wait to see how horny ya get when we really start rockin’ and rollin’, bitch—let’s find out!”

Moving slowly and sensually, the Trucker wrapped the belt around the Trooper’s throat, at one point gripping the buzz-cut cop’s head tightly in his big paw so he could slide the belt under his neck. Suddenly, the blond youth could no longer ignore what was happening to him.

The sensation of webbed nylon looping around his throat was terrifying and he tensed up. But tensing suddenly made the terrible reaming pain in his ass intensify as his torn sphincter tightened around the Trucker’s dick. His huge blue eyes, circled with dark rings of shock, opened wide as he gasped and inhaled jerkily.

The Trucker’s grinning face was inches from his; the Trooper could feel the panting breath of the older man plowing his ass. Sweat tricked down the alpha’s cheeks, slipping under the black goatee and snagging on the scruff of five o’clock shadow darkening the killer’s hard face. He was close enough that the dogtags weren’t dangling; they’d settled on the cop’s broad chest and bounced a jingling accompaniment to each excruciating thrust.

He’d gotten the belt completely around the Trooper’s neck, letting it lie loosely as he rose back up on his knees. His cock started sliding out of the youth’s traumatized fuckhole. He stopped his withdrawal at the last moment, leaving just his swollen purple head inside the blond’s quivering sphincter. The Trooper was shuddering and gasping, emitting a low whining sound with each breath.

In some recess of his mind, the perverted young cop knew that he needed to keep control, that this psycho was feeding off his reactions. He fought violently against himself, realizing that the more obvious it was that this dude was causing him pain, the more pain the dude would cause.

But he couldn’t. That was the real nightmare. He knew what it would take to mitigate the pain but he couldn’t control himself to get there. It hurt too fucking much.

The Trucker only got harder as he watched the struggle play out in front of his face. “Boy,” he chuckled, “this ain’t nothin’. In five minutes you’re gonna think this pain is a kiss from momma. In fifteen minutes you ain’t gonna remember this pain. And in half an hour, you ain’t gonna remember your momma.”

The older man loomed over the bound youth, a wild grin twisting his chiseled face. A gleeful light of lust danced in his eyes, heating the cold blue irises until they glittered in a way that terrified the helpless young psychopath. The Trooper hadn’t known that the same gleam of insanity had helped demoralize his own victims—but now that he was on the receiving end, the impact was like a direct punch to the face.

Reason—at least such reason as the perverted lawman possessed—wouldn’t help here. He’d already known he couldn’t break free of the case-hardened steel clamped painfully around his wrists. Now it was horribly obvious that he couldn’t talk his way out of the situation as well. Nothing, not even begging, was going to help. He was utterly within the Trucker’s mercy.

And he was sure the sadistic bastard had no mercy.

He was right.

The dogtags struck his chin as the older man drew closer. The Trooper didn’t look away; his eyes were drawn to those of his rapist’s as if he was being hypnotized by a snake. He was aware of movement, feeling the Trucker’s hard, rough hands sliding down his body, smearing his sweat over his smooth flesh like an oil rubdown.

The muscular blond punk shuddered in erotic terror as the alpha fondled his thick pecs, callused palms scraping over the Trooper’s painfully stiff and sensitive nipples. Despite himself, the helpless rogue cop moaned, softly and breathily. The pressure of the killer’s hands slipped down to his flat belly; the bound youth could trace the downward movement growing closer and closer to his throbbing dick.

The Trucker noticed the Trooper’s cock, straining and painfully erect. He slowly ran his hands down to the meat’s groin, curling his fingers in the golden nest of curly hair. As he had earlier, the older man yanked the pubes—but this time the bitch was awake. The boy groaned and writhed on the sheets, sliding on a film of body fluids. His shaft twitched and began oozing.

“Yeah, I thought so, cocksucker,” sneered the Trucker. “Ya wanna get hurt, dontcha, cunt? You’re into the pain, huh, you worthless fuckin’ pig? Yeah? Ya like it?” He leaned forward and slapped the Trooper, hard. The younger man gasped at the fresh pain in his already battered and bruised face; with his eyes closed, he hadn’t seen the blow coming.

The Trooper’s expression of hurt and disappointment triggered something deep within the Trucker. All he’d done was keep his cock plugged in the meat’s ass while groping the fucker’s body—and the piece of shit thought he was gettin’ romanced!

“What, motherfucker, ya thought I was fallin’ in love with you, you perverted fuckin’ faggot? Thought you could worm your way out like that? Holy shit, dude, you ain’t even got me drippin’ again yet. You’re boring me. Time to make you into meat.”

He hunched over the blond boy yet again, abruptly this time, his dogtags striking the fuckmeat right in the face, make the Trooper grunt and flinch. Slowly and deliberately, the Trucker’s hands crept toward the loose ends of the duty belt which was still wound around the cop’s throat.

The Trooper had indeed surrendered to a fantasy similar to the one the Trucker had imagined; it was based on a combination of physical lust and mortal terror, as if he knew his last chance for survival depended on establishing an emotional contact with his killer—a contact possible only in his fear-borne delusion.

Now cold hard realty was approaching with a horrifying inevitability. Those hands, that sensation of rough nylon around his throat… A slow, agonizing death was coming and the suffering was gonna be unimaginable and the humiliation and the– And the—

And why the fuck was dick still hard and pulsating?

The Trucker knew why. He’d lowered himself gradually onto the meat’s hard body, feeling the young man squirm under him. The cop’s cock felt like a hot rod of iron laid flat against his belly; even through his fur, he could feel the throbbing heat of the swollen shaft of flesh lying along his abdomen.

The meat liked it. He could scream and struggle and curse as much as he liked, but deep in his sick little pig soul, the thought of his own rape and strangulation got him horny as fuck.

Nothing left to wait for, then, really. The Trucker wrapped the ends of the belt around his hands and began to pull. He didn’t put a lot of effort into it at first, just enough to get the homo deathpig started.

The Trooper reacted instantly. The Trucker wasn’t actually choking him yet; with some effort, he could still breathe. But the collision of his greatest fear and his greatest desire tripped a panic response. Squealing shrilly, the muscled stud began to twist, flailing his legs against the alpha’s heaving, pumping flanks. His struggle provided a staccato background rhythm of slapping, firm smooth flesh against flesh.

The Trucker snarled, the high-pitched keening of his victim irritating him. “Jesus,” he hissed, “if you’re gonna squeal like a dying pig, you’re gonna be a dying pig.” His biceps bulged as he applied torque to the belt, watching the webbing compress as it tightened around the Trooper’s throat.

The hard-bodied cop opened his mouth widely, his face frozen in horror as he tried vainly to gulp for air. His body went rigid instinctively, clenching his rectum around the sadistic older man’s pulsating shaft.

Grinning, he spit into the Trooper’s swelling, darkening face. The younger man’s rigidity was starting to pass; his firm, limber legs began to beat at the Trucker’s thighs while his twisting arms made the cuffs clank against the headboard loud enough to drown out the killer’s grunting and the thick gagging sounds scraping out of the fucktoy’s blocked windpipe.

The rogue cop felt an intolerable pressure building in his head, a hot dark pounding pressure that filled his consciousness—no, not quite. There was other pain, more pain. His chest, that wasn’t pressure. It was more like a vacuum generated in his lungs; it felt like his chest was gonna explode. And the horrible plunging and reaming in his ass—the pain was merging, flowing into a tsunami of agony threatening to drag him under.

As great black blooms burst in his field of vision, the young man’s fading vision focused on his killer’s chest, fur matted with sweat, tensing and straining with the effort of choking his life out. The Trooper’s ears filled with a loud buzzing and suddenly he fell back into dark pit, a pit lined with pain…

Seeing that his prey had lost consciousness, the Trucker loosened the belt slightly. Not a lot, of course; just enough to let the limp hard-bodied punk gasp involuntarily for air, his body shuddering in effort on the alpha’s tool.

Grinning and pumping, the alpha observed the meat’s face starting to resume normal proportions and coloration. The breathing became less ragged and the tight firm body under his slowed in its struggles. As the punk’s eyelids began fluttering with returning awareness, the Trucker spit in his victim’s face almost casually before he started slapping it.

“C’mon, you worthless fuck, you can take more than that. I ain’t even gotten started pounding yer fuckhole cunt—ya gotta keep up with me, dude.”

The Trooper gave a faint gurgling sound; he was awake now. His tender, abused colon was still getting mercilessly plowed but he could breathe—and understand. He heard the Trucker.

“Man, I told ya I’d let ya live if you got me off before I whacked ya. Had no idea you were such a fucking weak-ass pansy homo. You keep tryin’ to check out while I’m ballin’ ya, I’m gonna get pissed and make sure it hurts, bitch,” the Trucker barked in anger. “So how about a little incentive, huh? Tell ya what, ya fuckin’ sick sack a’ shit, if you die before I’m done with ya, I’m gonna leave your body spread on the bed with your nightstick rammed up your ass like a fuckin’ popsicle stick, ya feelin’ me, fag? Get what I’m sayin? All yer motherfuckin’ cop buddies are gonna that you got used real good before you were put down.”

The Trucker tensed up on the ends of the belt, pulling it taut but not flush. “Good, meat,” he hissed, his eyes glittering with rage and lust, “beg me for your life. You’ve killed, aintcha? I know. You’ve snuffed a bitch. Beg for your life, cunt, beg like your boys begged you. Lemme hear their words outta your mouth, motherfucker.”

The Trooper’s eyes welled with tears as he heard the words, but at the same time, the older man increased the speed and depths of his thrusts. As his cock sank deeper into the blond cop’s ass, the helpless stud cried aloud before dropping into a subdued blubbering. “Goddam worthless faggot, you really are fuckin’ useless, aintcha, cocksucker?” snarled the furious alpha. “If your life ain’t worth beggin’ for, I guess it ain’t worth shit, huh?” He yanked the belt as hard as he could, clamping his victim’s windpipe shut.

Again, the reaction was immediate. The cop’s low wailing ceased instantly, replaced with a thick moist gagging noise. The muscled punk bent and twisted like a bull, tying to buck the Trucker off. The Trooper still had enough strength to bend his back up off the bed, even with the older man lying on top of him.

It was a bad idea. He couldn’t remain in that contorted position for long; he collapsed back onto the bed in a few seconds. The drop was enough to cause the killer to lose his balance, just for a moment, but it was enough to loosen the belt. Again, not a good thing. At the same time as the constriction around his throat eased, the weight of the Trucker on his chest made him exhale, not inhale. What little reserve of oxygen had remained in his lungs was now expelled.

Before he had a chance to gasp in another breath, the alpha regained control and cinched down the belt again. “Smooth move, you stupid motherfucker,” sneered the Trucker, “really fucked up, dintcha? And ya didn’t even knock my cock outta yer ass!” The older man threw his dark head back and laughed aloud.

He’d cut off the meat’s air, but hadn’t pulled it tight—really tight. Looking down at the writhing youth under him, the Trucker watched the meat’s handsome face slowly swell and darken. He knew the pressure was going to continue to build inside his victim, inescapable pain and pressure—and he knew the faggot cunt knew it too.

The boy’s panic was obvious in his protruding eyes; he seemed oblivious to the way his fuckhole was stroking his killer’s cock, but his firm smooth thighs frantically slapping against those of the older man were a sign of his desperation. Despite the flailing of his legs, though, the white tube socks continued to cling tightly to his muscled calves.

The Trooper actually could feel his assailant’s engorged shaft plugging his colon—in fact, every movement he made caused unspeakable agony in his ass as the huge rod, rigid as iron, tore at his rectal lining. But his chest was exploding and his skull was imploding as screaming darkness closed in. The blond lawman realized that parts of his brain were starting to die; the pain of the rape was, had to be, utterly insignificant, crowded out by the terror and agony of death.

Sliding into crisis mode, the cop’s lithe, developed body shuddered, his legs wrapping tightly around his killer’s broad, heaving back. At the same time, the alpha rested his entire weight on top of the meat so he could wrap the belt around his hand one more time, tightening it even further. Both hard-bodied men were now quivering in a warm, moist embrace, fur grinding over smooth flesh on a film of sweat being wrung out of the dying punk.

The room echoed with the sounds of rape and snuff. Loudest of all was the clanging of the meat’s handcuffs on the headboard as his arms jerked frantically. The violent arching of his back was responsible for the next sound—the Trucker’s dogtags jangling as he held onto his convulsing fucktoy. The slapping of slick flesh was almost inaudible under the loud grunting coming from both—the alpha’s in effort and the meat’s involuntarily as froth oozed from his mouth.

The Trucker’s face was just inches away from that of his fucktoy. He was able to observe the physical effects of slow, traumatic strangulation at close range. Breathing deeply, he inhaled the heady scent of sex and death, pheromones and testosterone and mansweat. Beneath him, the young blond was almost unrecognizable.

Swelling and darkening again, the punk’s face became grotesque as his eyes bulged horribly, reddening with petechial hemorrhages. The fuckmeat’s tongue, thick and purple like the head of a dick, emerged from his blue lips, lube by the foam bubbling out of his blocked windpipe.

When the Trooper went under, his eyes rolled back until nothing but blood-shot whites showed under his long fluttering lashes. The Trucker immediately slackened the belt; the meat gasped thickly in an involuntary scramble for air. The older dude grinned and remained still; for the moment, he didn’t need to do more.

The psycho lawman jerked and inhaled arrhythmically. As he struggled involuntarily to pump enough oxygen through his system to prevent irreversible brain trauma, his colon still maintained a tight, velvety grip on the alpha’s sensitive shaft. Each gag, every cough vibrated through the Trooper’s firm, muscled body. At some point, each traumatic retching gasp rippled through the meat’s rectum and stroked his rapist’s tool.

“Ya back yet, cunt?” he hissed. “Fuckin’-A, you useless pervert, you still ain’t got me off yet!”

The Trooper clawed his way back up a razor-lined shaft into reality, the returning of awareness a long painful process. His vision was cloudy, his hearing intermittent. His sense of touch—his sense of sense, so to speak—that worked. Oh fuck, it still worked…

He hadn’t know how oxygen deprivation increased sensitivity as nerve ends began to die. His own victims—the agony they must have experienced as they died…

Despite the crushing pain of getting throttled until he lost consciousness, despite the deep slashing pain in his ass, the understanding of the horror he’d inflicted on those kids he’d wasted had a physical impact.

He got hard.

The Trucker noticed—and the Trooper noticed he noticed. It was a brutal slap of reality; he remembered what was happening. He went limp.

The Trucker was furious.

“What the fuck ya need, cumsucker—pain? That it? You a pain pig? Fuck yeah, dude, didn’t know ya had it in ya! You like to get hurt, huh? Saddle up, you motherfuckin’ faggot, I’ll hurt ya so fuckin’ bad you’ll cum!” he snarled in rage, spit flying from his lips. The sadistic alpha gave the belt one last twist around the frantic punk’s neck, cinching it agonizingly before transferring both ends to his left hand. He wrapped them around his palm so he could grip them in one hand without slackening the wide ligature sunk painfully into the fucker’s taut throat.

The muscled killer’s right arm was free. He made use of it immediately, piledriving his rock-hard fist into the meat’s firm belly. The pain-wracked youth tried instinctively to curl into a fetal position, but the weight of his well-built rapist kept him pinned to the bed. He could only writhe and shudder on the damp sheets as tears oozed from his bulging eyes.

“Goddam, fuckmeat, that did ya some good—I felt that all the way down my dick. That’s what ya like, ya fuckin’ psycho homo pervert, huh? You just need a good beatdown. Here ya go, cunt!” the Trucker growled, repeating the blow. “Yeah, that’s it, bitch, lookit your hard dick slappin’ against me—worthless faggot pain pig!” Another gutpunch, and another. Each time the killer grunted as the blunt force reverberated through his victim’s traumatized body and flowed down his rectum, tightening his asshole.

The Trooper was almost beyond rational thought. A vast fog enveloped his mind, a screaming, pounding silence deafened him—but it was the pain that overshadowed all. His stomach was strong and firm, the smooth skin rippled with muscles, but he’d already suffered so much that even his hard, developed torso was unable to withstand the attack.

The fog was turning into a hot black wave. Something else he hadn’t known—he’d always thought being strangled would be a cold death but it wasn’t. His victims—that first one in the back of the cop car—he’d sweated like a hog as the Trooper choked him. At the time, he thought the kid was on crack.

The hot darkness was penetrated by lightning—each time he was punched, the older man’s fist sank deep into his guts, just above the point where the man’s cock was impaling his innards. Everything—oh fuck, everything—his chest, his ass, his head, it all hurt. Fiery numbness froze his bound hands; his arms twitched convulsively, making the cuffs clang rhythmically against the headboard. He couldn’t hear it.

As his swollen, congested face darkened, white froth bubbled past his protruding tongue. It slid across his snot-smeared face, now grotesquely twisted. He wasn’t aware of the details, though; his head was one source of pain among many. His ass, oh fuck, his ass, his dick…

His dick. As black cacophony took him under, he could still sense his rod, erect and straining to an unbearable extent. He was dying and he was so hard it hurt; it wasn’t fair…but those boys he’d wasted, they’d gone hard as they died…now it was happening to him…hot dark screaming pain…no, wait…

The Trucker almost missed the signal. The meat’s cock was slapping against his furry belly as the motherfucker’s lights went out; it was only when precum began to splatter across his chest that he realized he’d taken the cop closer to death than he wanted. He unwound the belt from his left hand right away. The blond stud writhed and convulsed beneath him, his fuckhole stroking the alpha’s huge engorged shaft.

“C’mon back, cunt, I ain’t done with ya yet,” the Trucker whispered to the youth as he coughed and gagged. Somewhere along the line—the Trucker didn’t notice exactly when and didn’t care—the fuckmeat regained consciousness. The rogue cop’s slow and painful climb back to reality was accompanied by a background of abuse.

“Wake the fuck up, you punk-ass cocksucker. C’mon, bitch, milk my fuckin’ shaft. I’m done fuckin’ around with ya. Remember when I told ya I’d let ya live if you managed to get me off? I lied, faggot. Only reason you’re still alive is cause I haven’t cum yet.”

By now the Trooper was fully awake; at least, as awake as he’d ever be again. After all, he’d been without oxygen for extended periods twice now. Things were fuzzy around the edges…

No. The pain, that was as sharp as ever.

“Ok, you disgusting pervert, I’m gonna wipe your stain off this planet. Ya feel me, motherfucker? This time it’s gonna be for real. See, I’m gonna make you hurt so bad you’ll make me blow my load just so I’ll end your pain. You thought you were man enough to take me down, you fuckin’ queerboy? I bet every real man in the barracks knew you were a homo cocksucker!”

He bent down over the dazed youth, dropping his dogtags into his smeared red face. The Trucker’s eyes glinted with an icy, malevolent glee as he whispered into the blond punk’s ear, “and if they don’t know it now, I’ll make sure they find out. I’m gonna leave your reamed-out corpse right here, bound to this cum-soaked bed with your own cuffs. They’re gonna know you got fucked in the ass, cause I’m gonna leave yer nightstick in it, shoved up to the hilt. Bet that turns ya on, you disgusting pig, huh”

The Trooper cringed and blubbered, coughing up blood-streaked phlegm from his damaged windpipe. He was alive and aware—and wishing he wasn’t. The pain was still there.

What little of him was left was focused on breathing; an excruciating experience on its own. Each desperate gasp for air was like inhaling razor blades. The hammering in his skull was unbearable; the knowledge that he was hearing the desperate beat of his pulse as his heart struggled in vain to pump oxygen to his brain only terrified him even more—and made his heart speed up.

His chest felt like it was imploding; a vacuum of agonizing force was centered there. As the Trooper’s eyes became less dim (and as they sank back into their orbits, his vision became less distorted), he could see the older man’s face leering down at him in contemptuous lust. Sweat trickled down the Trucker’s cheek, the beads disappearing into the scruff darkening the killer’s firm jawline.

The blond youth gagged and coughed repeatedly. If his need for air hadn’t been so desperate—and his airway so traumatized—he would have been screaming. The grotesque impaling sensation in his colon had never dimmed; it was just that now the agony of actual death was fading. There was nothing else to compete with the feeling of the alpha’s swollen tool rammed deep into his guts, tearing him open inside.

The Trooper shook his head frantically but was still incapable of articulate speech. Grunts and gurgles bubbled out of his throat in a blood-streaked foam. His barely-functioning mind was in chaos; his thoughts were incompatible with each other.

He wanted to end the pain. He wanted to die; that was the only way to end it.

He wanted to obey. He wanted to work his ass muscles to make his top cum; he just didn’t know how.

He wanted to kill this motherfucker. He wanted to make him suffer this pain; the serial killer in him was still alive.

He wanted to shoot his load. He wanted to give up his life seed as he slipped into death; it was what he’d wanted all along.

Glaring down into his victim’s face, the Trucker already knew what was running through what was left of his mind. He was experienced; they always went through something like this as they trembled on the edge of their blackest desire. Fuckin’ deathpigs—not even grateful when you give ‘em what they want.

And although the Trooper didn’t know it yet, three outta four ain’t bad.

“One.”

The muscled top started the countdown. The bound lawman knew what it meant.

“Two.”

The cop tried to ignore the words. He clenched his eyes closed again, retreating into himself the same way he’d done at the start. Problem was, this time he already knew what his assailant was capable of.

“Three.”

In a panic, he began flexing his rectum, trying to constrict his sphincter. There had to be a way out—if he could just get more time…

“Four.”

It wasn’t enough for the fucker. There had to be more he could do—but it hurt, oh god, his ass hurt so fuckin’ bad, this guy was tearing him open, each movement was ripping his tender flesh deep inside…

“Five. Time to die, faggot.”

Some deep, hidden part of the Trooper’s psyche heard the words and responded by overriding every reflex of pain or fear that would prevent an erection. As the webbed nylon belt constricted around his throat again, the bound muscular cop felt his cock rise up, painfully rigid and oozing an almost steady stream of precum.

All his cocky arrogance had been wrung out of him, oozing out with his sweat and pain. He his brain was full of an icy fog that paralyzed his will; he was terrified of his hard-on—he knew it was only gonna become more agonizing as the spark of life was throttled out of him—but he was past the point of active resistance.

The Trucker leaned back, stretching his arm out. Feeling around behind himself, the alpha retrieved the nightstick. He held it front of the Trooper, his other hand holding the belt taut but not tight around the meat’s neck. He laid the baton down next to the blond’s head; if the cunt turned to the right, he’d see it. And the killer could tell by his victim’s expression that the punk hadn’t forgotten where the Trucker was gonna leave it.

The muscular stud jerked on the belt pulling the Trooper roughly up off the bed. Inhaling deeply, he hocked a huge wad of phlegm onto the stunned cop’s face, wiping it over the youth’s swollen, tear-slicked cheeks with his strong, rough paw.

The young man grimaced blearily. The Trucker dropped him back onto the bed and took the ends of the belt in both hands. His huge rod, still plugging the fucktoy’s ass, pulsed warmly and wetly in anticipation. He paused—cruelly, just to let the tension build.

The Trooper was undergoing an agonizing epiphany, an approach to understanding the nightmarish erotic pain to which he’d subjected two innocent teenage boys. He was sinking into a dull haze, hypnotized by the dancing flashes of light reflecting off the dogtags dangling from the Trucker’s thick neck…

For a moment, there was no sound in the room but that of two well-built men panting with lustful exertion. As the funk of sweat, testosterone and old cum intensified, the Trucker broke the silence with a whisper. “Third time’s the charm, fuckin’ homo cunt.”

He abruptly yanked his arms, jerking the belt tight around his meat’s throat. The fucker leaped like a fish on a line, snapped out of his daze by the crushing pain in his esophagus and the now-familiar crushing agony in his chest and his head. “Fuck yeah, bitch,” the Trucker hissed through gritted teeth, “now you’re working my cock. That’s it, fight it, faggot. C’mon, kick and twitch on my dick, motherfucker!”

The alpha lowered his head until his face was inches from the Trooper. His expression twisted into sneering sexual contempt as he watched the blond youth’s face darken through shades of red and violet. The serial killer wanna-be, helpless and struggling, began oozing drool from the side of his mouth as his tongue protruded, as purple and swollen as the head of his cock, bobbing in the air—and also oozing.

Grinning hatefully, the scruffy top pulled hard on the belt, causing his rock-hard biceps to bulge. The thick black nylon webbing circling the rogue cop’s neck sank in deeply. The punk’s eyes opened wide and he began flailing and coughing in a frantic and futile attempt to inhale; he didn’t manage to do more than spit up wads of white foam.

“Does it hurt yet, cunt?” leered the older man, slightly panting his words out as he kept the pressure on his meat’s windpipe. “Hurts so fuckin’ good, don’t it? You know, you worthless piece of shit, you know how good it feels. You know how fuckin’ hot it is to waste someone while you’re banging ‘em, yeah? Now you get ta feel what it’s like to be the fuckpig—told ya it was gonna be yer lucky motherfuckin’ day, didn’t I, huh?”

The Trooper knew. Even in the involuntary convulsions of imminent death he hadn’t forgotten the feeling of raping and snuffing those soft smooth boys—and this was what they’d endured, the little cumsacks…

But he’d been right about his dick. It hurt—oh fuck, how it hurt, so hard and engorged it felt like it was gonna split… But he couldn’t help it. Throughout the entire ordeal, the Trucker had never pulled out of the young man’s ass—and now he was back to reaming it like a plumber’s snake. Every thrust was like a direct punch to his prostate. Every thrust caused another agonizing, uncontrollable throb in his swollen shaft.

As the Trucker maintained the tightness of the belt by brute strength, the hard-bodied youth writhed beneath him, his smooth flesh sliding around on yet another film of death-sweat slowly being squeezed out of him. His firm, muscular legs wrapped around his killer’s waist with an involuntary vice-like grip, his white tube socks somehow still clinging to his thick calves as his feet kicked desperately at the dominant alpha’s pumping ass.

The Trooper’s arms jerked arrhythmically, clanging the handcuffs against the headboard, the jagged tempo increasing as his convulsion became more acute. His entire intestinal tract spasmed violently in organ failure; the older man grunted in pleasure as the homo punk’s colon massaged his thick rod. The meat’s sphincter tightened around the root of his dick like a cockring.

“Fuckin’ die, you faggot pervert, die on my dick!” the Trucker growled as he sped up his thrusts, driving his enormous shaft deep into the youth’s twitching guts. The young handsome blond was almost unrecognizable now, his face horrifyingly black and distorted—but he wasn’t dead yet.

Some parts of his brain were shutting down but as dark fireworks burst silently in front of his swollen, blood-shot eyes, he was still aware enough to realize that oxygen deprivation was again inducing hypersensitivity in his traumatized anus. That was why it felt like this psycho stud’s massive tool had a barbed head that was slashing at his rectum…

But knowing the cause didn’t lessen the agony.

As death closed in, the Trooper felt waves of nightmarish knife-like pain roll across his muscular form. He knew he was convulsing, his thick, strong limbs shuddering. His legs, clamped like scissors around the alpha’s heaving, sweaty flanks, kicked futilely in the air while his quivering arms beat an accompaniment of clanking metal to his final moments.

He’d been right—the heat had seeped out of him with his pheromone-soaked sweat. Death was dark and cold, promising and icy release from the torture he was enduring, but the white-hot burning sensation in his cock was getting more intense with each passing second.

And the seconds themselves seemed to slow down. Over the pounding of his pulse, the frenetic tempo of his heart trying to push oxygen that wasn’t there, the young cop heard his killer speak. The words were low and long, like a slowed-down film.

“Ya fuckin’ useless pig—thought you were gonna fuck me? Looks like you were wrong—dead wrong, cunt. And now yer buddies are gonna find ya with cum up your ass, rammed home with your own nightstick. I’ll make sure to leave you with your legs spread wide so they can see what a slut you were, faggot.”

The Trooper was almost gone; the words worked their way through his dying brain like bubble through molasses. He could still grasp their import but was incapable of acknowledging it with anything more than dull despair. The slashing agony in his fuckhole seared its way up the root of his dick, a solid spike of horribly erotic pain beyond his experience.

Deep within the pig part of his mind, the part that was wallowing in the black mud of helpless rape and murder, he could feel that part of his oozing, straining hard-on was inspired by his realization of what his victims had suffered. The sick bastard, getting snuffed himself, was hard at the full understanding of the torture he’d inflicted on his own victims.

Of course, he still hadn’t gone all the way. He hadn’t made the full journey into the dark.

With a loud grunt, the Trucker put all his muscle into tightening the belt, pulling so hard the tendons stood out on his neck. The wide black webbing embedded itself into the Trooper’s neck. A loud cracking, crunching sound penetrated the room as the blond cop went rigid.

The pain from his crushed esophagus momentarily overrode the pleasure/pain of the rape. The fireworks were inside his head now, each explosion wiping out functional parts of his nervous system. Just before his vision faded, it circled in on the sneering face of the Trucker, his hard, handsome features, covered with black stubble and facial hair, twisted in contempt as he spit on his victim one last time.

Then the perverted killer cop fell into a deep cold howling pit, his last connection to life the raging agony in his ass and cock. He never felt the blows the Trucker rained brutally on his face, making his body convulse more violently and work the shaft on which it was impaled even more intensely. He never heard the smacking sound of fist on flesh, the guttural grunting of the alpha as he edged closer to orgasm, the crunch of his nose as his assailant flattened it…

Then the tension snapped. The Trucker’s huge, throbbing cock erupted, ejecting a massive wad of hot cum into the fuckmeat’s shredded colon. Trembling on the edge of hell, the cop felt his ass flooded with molten steel, the sensation of boiling liquid seeming to eat its way through his bowels.

His last living act, involuntary and almost unconscious, was the ejaculation of a thick, ropy jet of semen. He died in nightmarish agony, his dick shooting so hard it felt like it was being flayed inside out, his awareness flickering out in his irreparably damaged brain as the best part of him was pumped out of his cock in white, creamy geysers.

The Trooper’s streams of spunk splashed across the Trucker’s furry torso, smearing with the older man’s sweat to mat the hair on his chest. As the dying punk jerked wildly in his death throes, more sperm spattered warmly and wetly on the underside of the alpha’s strong jaw, almost like a deliberate blast from a water gun. The Trooper continued to writhe and expel a phenomenal amount of cum for another forty-five seconds, hosing himself, his killer, and the bed in general with vast spurts of DNA.

The Trucker grunted and panted, his eyes closed tight, biting his lower lip in the intensity of his own rage-filled orgasm. Too hate-filled to speak, he forced his spewing shaft as far up the corpse’s fuckhole as he could, pumping his hot seed deep into the dead cop’s guts. Groaning loudly, he instinctively contracted his arms, pulling the twitching body up off the soiled sheets.

As he felt his balls empty violently, the Trucker stared into the Trooper’s grotesquely blackened face. The lolling head drooped, the bulging, hemorrhaged eyes rolling back so that nothing but blood-streaked whites were visible. The rogue cop was now nothing but a quivering meat puppet milking the cum out of the stronger man.

Still shuddering in intense ejaculation, the older top let the young blond’s corpse drop back onto the wet sheets, his groin grinding into the dead youth’s asscheeks before he finally relented. Sighing deeply, he slowly and reluctantly let his still-pulsing cock slide out of the punk’s fuckhole. It slipped out on with a slimy, pearly lube of spunk, tinted pink with blood.

“If ya’d been any good, I’da taught ya some tricks,” he muttered, “but you’re just meat.” Reaching to the side, he grabbed the baton. True to his word, he inserted it into the Trooper’s slack asshole, steadily shoving it in more deeply. Any resistance he encountered he overcame with increased force, feeling flesh tear each time he applied more pressure.

By the time he was done, the inch-and-a-half diameter aluminum rod was sunk to the hilt in the blond cop’s ass. The Trucker propped his legs apart, placing a pillow under the corpse’s ass so that the baton was clearly visible from the door.

Still panting and sweating, the Trucker stepped into the bathroom, now utterly sauna-like from the hot shower that he’d left running. It didn’t take long to scrub the thick white crust of dried cum from his wiry chest fur and the finer dark hairs on his flat but rippled belly. Before he did, though, he wiped some of the lawman’s still-moist seed off his hard torso with a hand towel and set it aside.

After cleansing himself to his satisfaction, the Trucker dragged the teen’s corpse to the shower. He’d spent just over an hour dealing with the unwelcome but entertaining intruder; the cunt he’d left on the floor was starting to stiffen. There was just enough flexibility for him to drag the dead meat into the shower, aim the ass into the shower head and pull open the sphincter. After flushing the colon with hot water, he held the corpse upright, still pulling the ass open with his fingers. Despite the physical ordeal he’d been through, both sexual and combative, the teen’s corpse was no strain on his muscles. After allowing the anal cavity to drain, he yanked the rigid body out of the tub and placed it back on the floor.

Retrieving the plunger from behind the toilet, the Trucker wrapped the cum-soaked towel around the handle—then rammed the handle up the stiff’s ass. He made sure to grind it around inside the corpse, smearing the Trooper’s DNA inside the washed-out cavity.

He chuckled silently—at the very least, it would confuse the issue. And the cop’s own ass was pooling with blood leaking from the slashed and shredded rectal tissue. Yeah, there’d be a lot of questions about this one…

His jeans had been left in the bathroom; dark, warm and moist, they clung tightly to his thighs as he forced them on. His socks and boots were just outside the door. First, though, he slipped his t-shirt and leather vest back on, lighting a smoke from the pocket of his shirt.

Clenching the cigarette between his teeth, he sat on the bed next to the Trooper’s still-quivering body. Crossing his legs, he slid his socks and boots on, pausing between each to tap his ash into the dead cop’s drool-soaked face. When he was done, he extinguished his smoke on the dark, dry tongue with a loud sizzle.

The Trucker stepped back to take one last look. He needed to remember this scene; he’d almost died here. The face of the blond lawman was still black and swollen; the belt was too embedded in the neck to remove. The tousled wet sheets, slimy with cum and sweat, were rank with sex. The Trooper’s spread, shuddering legs obscenely thrust the nightstick forward with each convulsion, as if the dead youth was proudly displaying a new dildo.

The Trucker had an idea. He gathered up the Trooper’s uniform. The slacks, the shirt, the boots—he also made sure to get cuffs he’d been bound with. They were still clamped on the radiator, the key in the open cuff that had been around his wrist. After pocketing it, he even got down on hands and knees to retrieve the gun. Not that he’d kill anyone with the gun, of course. He wanted it for intimidation.

It was way too fast a way of death for him to actually employ.

Rolling the cop’s gear into a ball, the older man turned out the lights in the room and quickly slipped out the door in the dark. He strode quickly across the parking lot, his boots thumping on the pavement. Skirting the circle of light shed by the motel office, he slipped unnoticed across the street. The bar was long since closed; the only two vehicle left in the lot were his rig—and a state trooper’s car. Damn. The Trucker scrambled into his cab, shifted into gear, and eased out of the lot and up onto the highway.

He wasn’t done in this area, oh no. There was a least one cunt not too far away who deserved to be taught his value in the world—which was about the same as a used cumrag.

But right now, he needed to go. He needed to be out of the jurisdiction of the state cops, at least for a while.

On the highway, he headed north. He was over the state line in less than an hour; in less than twenty-four, he was on the hunt again.

Finally. I’m back out on the hunt. It’s been too long; I’ve had too much shit to deal with recently to go prowling for prey, but I’m back.

I’m hungry for meat.

Among other things, I got a new van. Didn’t want to tool around too long in the last car; it coulda been recognized at a dump site. This one’s nice. Lotta nice features.

The plastic lining the back isn’t standard. Did that myself. Covered as much of the interior as I can; no sense in leaving trace evidence.

Although the way I’m feeling today, there’ll be more than just “trace” evidence. Gonna take more than that to sate the hunger and rage inside.

It’s a warm night for this time of year. I’m in a major shopping center; there’s lots of meat out and about. There’s also a fair amount of security in some of these stores, but at the moment, I’m way out in the middle of the parking lot. There’s the strip mall dead ahead, the big-box store on my left and more strip mall behind me. To my right, I can see the back side of several fast food places and boutique stores facing the main street.

It’s late afternoon. The sky is strange; huge low heavy clouds sit oppressively overhead, but the sun is shining through a break. It seems so much brighter contrasted with the dark, lowering ceiling overhead. Everything is suffused with a golden light.

There aren’t too many cars near me, so I have a pretty good view. Not much to look at, though. There are a few hot boys running around, but they’re all either too far away or accompanied by someone. So I wait.

As the bronze rays of the sun slowly begin to slant away, the security light behind the restaurant closest to me comes on. Just after it does, I see the back door swing open and my meat steps out.

He doesn’t know he’s my meat yet. He’s young; looks like he’s about eighteen or nineteen. Tall, lean and lanky but not scrawny. Above his full lips his face is angular but no more acne-scarred than the average teenager. Just below his smoky blue-gray eyes, his straight nose is interrupted by a swelling; it appears to have been broken at some point in the past.

Good. He’s experienced pain…

In this light, his long blond hair has an amazing golden glow. It’s very straight except for a slight curl at the ends, just above his shoulders. As he turns and I can see his profile, I also notice the haze of shining curls on his chin, a tuft of blond hair there catching the light.

He must be about six, six one. He’s in a black t-shirt that clings tightly to his boyish chest, his pecs two small rises with a shallow valley between. Below his flat belly tight skinny jeans hug his rounded ass and outline a long ridge in his crotch. As his denim-wrapped legs taper to his black leather hightop sneakers, I can imagine his firm thighs tightening around me in agony…

Ok, deep breath. Let’s see what it takes to get the punk. He’s smoking a cigarette and talking on his phone. I’m about twenty yards away, but with the window down I can just barely make out the gist of his conversation.

He’s yelling at someone who was supposed to give him a ride home but didn’t answer his texts. Sounds like he’s talking to voicemail. Poor little guy; maybe he needs a lift. I can do that. But I don’t just wanna pull up in my van and offer a ride; that’d most likely raise a red flag.

This is what it means to be a hunter. It’s a gamble, literally; you’re betting that you’ll get a better shot at your prey while risking allowing him to escape. I wait.

He hangs up, tosses his butt aside and paces angrily for a couple of minutes. I continue to wait, wanting to see what he does. The length and force of his strides decreases as he walks off his frustration.

The lithe blond punk pauses and glances around. He slips his cigarette pack out again, but what he pulls out is slimmer and more irregular then a cigarette. He lights his joint and inhales deeply, closing his eyes in pleasure. It’s the opening I’ve been looking for.

I start my van and ease out of my parking space. I slowly coast down the row and turn right. The kid is facing away from me; good—he doesn’t hear me until I’m right up on him. He turns, startled, hiding the weed behind him with a guilty expression.

I grin nonchalantly. “Dude, you got another of those?” I ask him casually. “I’ll give ya five bucks; my guy can’t find any right now.”

“Not a prob,” I chuckle, “hop in, dude.” He strolls around to the passenger side and climbs in. Fuck, his jeans are clinging so tightly to his slim, firm legs—it’s all I can do to resist jumping him right now. But I don’t; not yet. I need to get someplace private.

“Where we goin’?” I drawl. He gives me directions to one of the suburbs on the east side of town. Kinda a low-rent district. “Ok, I can do that,” I reply. “So whaddaya got to sell?”

“Dude,” he grins, his young, eager face framed by his long blond locks, “I gotta half-ounce tucked down inside my shoe right now.”

“That’ll work,” I smile back, “but I gotta run by my place and get the money first. I don’t tool around with a lot of cash.”

He agrees cheerfully. Perfect. I pull over in a residential area. “Get in the back,” I tell the kid, “I don’t want my girl to see ya; I got enough explainin’ to do as it is.” His beautiful cloudy gray eyes rest hesitantly on mine for a moment, but the punk is too stoned to pick up on any danger signals. He gives another big goofy grin. “Sure, dude,” he lilts, “don’t wanna cause a problem.”

“Don’t worry,” I say as I unbuckle my seat belt and start to follow him into the rear of the van, “you won’t.”

He gives a loud grunt as I drive my fist into his face. The sound makes me hard.

The kid falls to his knees, mewling in pain. I grab a fistful of his long blond hair and yank his head back until I can look into his stunned eyes. “Welcome to hell, cunt,” I whisper, smiling into his vacant, horrified face before I slam my fist back into it, putting out his lights. He drops to the floor with a thump.

Well, I ain’t gonna do him here. Too exposed, too much traffic. But I can do a little prep work so he knows what to expect.

Stripping him isn’t difficult but I take a little time—not too much; I’m still on a main street—just enough to enjoy myself. I pull off his black t-shirt, still damp and reeking with boysweat, and toss it to one side. Rolling him flat on his back, I sit on his crotch, facing him, feeling his thick dick pressing against my ass through my tight jeans—and his. He moans thickly, his long eyelashes fluttering as I run my hand down his smooth, firm chest. After fondling his flat belly, I drive my fist into it violently, just to hear that erotic grunt again.

I like to fuck my meat with its shoes on, so his don’t come off. His jeans are too tight to pull off over them. Well, I wanted to get my knife out anyway…

I haven’t used it in a while. It’s so fucking hot; I’m already hard, but holding it makes me drip. It’s a Ka-bar knife with a seven-inch black steel blade. The last three inches towards the hilt are serrated. It’s vicious and clearly designed to inflict maximum damage. It slices through kid’s denim like it was butter, laying bare his muscled legs, covered with a faint fine down of blond hair.

Little motherfucker is commando under. Figures. Stupid bitch probably wants to get used. Well, fuck, guess he’s in for a good time, then—cause I’m damn sure gonna use him good and hard.

In fact, I’m gonna use him right the fuck up.

I was right about his cock, a long snake-like tube of flesh coiled in the golden nest of his pubic hair. I flip the limp slut over and admire his smooth taut bubble butt. Goddam, I can’t wait to plow that tight fuckhole. But I gotta get somewhere private, so I restrain myself—and restrain my meat. His hands go behind his back; I make sure the zip tie is painfully tight.

Later on, I’m gonna spread his legs and rape his smooth teen ass, but right now, I don’t need him kicking around in the back of my van, so I loop his belt around his ankles—a thick black leather strap. I cinch it tight, just above his hightops and white tube socks. I need to keep him quiet; just before climbing back into the driver’s seat, I ball up his reeking t-shirt and shove it in his mouth.

I also make sure to leave the knife where he can see it if he wakes up.

I’m not too far from one of my favorite killing grounds, a semi-deserted industrial area where I know I can get some privacy for at least an hour. That should be enough time to fuck and waste the meat.

It takes a couple of minutes to find the right spot—an enclosed yard containing the loading dock for a defunct factory. Isolated and dark, it hasn’t been used for years for any legitimate purpose. Judging by the amount of broken glass strewn across the cracked, streaked asphalt, it hasn’t been used for any other in quite a while too. Which makes it perfect, but I have to drive carefully.

The meat is awake. I can hear him struggling and jerking, a series of frantic muffled grunts and cries coming from his plugged-up mouth. Good—hope he’s seen the knife.

If not, that’s okay. He’ll see it soon enough anyway.

I ease my van in and shut off the ignition. I step into the rear and turn on the overhead light I had put in, attached directly to the battery. There’s a curtain I can draw to close off the front; with the tinted windows in the rear, no one can see in—not that there’s anyone within at least a mile.

I stand over the meat, looking down at him in the dim light. His face is smeared with tears and snot; he’s clearly terrified. His fear exudes from his hard nude body like an erotic musk. It’s time.

I bend down and snatch the sweaty t-shirt, now soaked with drool, out of the teen’s mouth. It doesn’t matter if he screams now; there’s no one to hear. And I want him to scream.

I like it when the meat screams.

The punk looks up at me, his long blond hair in disarray. When he speaks, his voice quavers in fear. “What-what ya doin’ man? What ya goin’ to do to me?” he whines.

I don’t say anything. Looking down at him with a leer on my face, I pull off my shirt. His smoky eyes slide over my hairy, muscular chest before returning to my face with obvious trepidation. He still doesn’t get it.

The kid’s eyes become large round circles and his face pales visibly. “No,” he whispers shakily, “please, fuck, no. Oh God, no, please, don’t do this…” He trails off into broken sobs.

Still not saying anything, I pick up my knife. The meat sees me and gasps, then begins blubbering incoherently. Ignoring him, I bend down and cut the belt binding his legs. Deep in the iron grip of terror, the teen doesn’t try to move; he shudders and trembles as I run my hand up his smooth firm thighs, parting them forcefully so I can get at his fuckhole.

As I kneel between his legs, the boy writhes on his back, his hands bound agonizingly under him. He knows what’s coming; grimacing, he turns his head to the side, tears slipping out from under his long pale lashes.

I move slowly, caressing his smooth boytaint with the oozing head of my dick, letting him feel the massive mushroom tip that’s about to get jammed up his ass. I make sure he doesn’t miss the point. “Yeah, cocksucker, feels good, don’t it? Think how it’s gonna feel when it’s reaming your guts out through your asshole!”

He gasps in fear—or pleasure. It sounds the same. But it’s not his gasping I wanna hear; it’s his screaming. I know how to get it.

Without warning, I plunge my swollen cock into his hole, ramming my vein-wrapped dong as far in as I can, grinding my dark pubic hair into the cunt’s smooth asscheeks. His shriek is loud and piercing—and beautiful. There’s no one for miles, so he can scream as much as he want. Fuck, it’s so goddam hot, the way his body tenses and his silky rectum tightens on my dick like a velvet glove…

The punk takes a deep, shuddering gasp and screams again. The vibration begins in his vocal cords and runs the length of his taut body. I moan out loud. “Fuck yeahhhhh…..”

He turns his head back towards me, his innocent teen face staring into my eyes in pain. “You like hurting me…” he whispers faintly as he pales with horror.

I grin down at him. “Yeah, you fuckin’ faggot. And trust me, you ain’t begun to start hurtin’ yet.”

He glares up at me defiantly. “I ain’t no faggot. And I ain’t gonna help you get off, fucker. You wanna hear me scream? Tough shit. Rape me all fuckin’ night, but I ain’t gonna scream.”

I piledrive my fist into his face, straight from my shoulder. The feisty teen fuckmeat gives another deep grunt of pain and shock as his head rocks back violently. I don’t say a word—I don’t need to. I just pick up my knife and lay it on the cunt’s flat, heaving belly.

My cock remains buried in the bitch’s hole the entire time. His colon massages my swollen, sensitive shaft as he jerks and claws his way back to consciousness. He lifts his head up off the floor, looking down at the knife resting on his abdomen. His left eye is already starting to swell and darken. He’s silent. Stupid fucking teen, but he knows what it means. I can see it in his face.

“Don’t think I can make ya scream, motherfucker? Wanna bet? You’re gonna be screamin’ like the bitch you are, you worthless homo piece of shit. You’re gonna scream and scream but the only way the pain is gonna stop is when I cum. Know what it’s gonna take to make me cum? You gotta die. That’s all there is for ya, pain and death. You’re gonna be a meat puppet filled with my spunk and left to rot in a ditch. How ya like that, you fuckin’ stoned-ass punk cunt?”

Fear rendering the queer punk unable to hold his rebellious glare, the boycunt ducks his head and whimpers. He’s coming to understand that his lithe, lean, smooth body is mine to use as I want. Understanding, however, is not acceptance. And it’s not compliance.

I lay down on top of him, the weight of my muscles holding down his slim teen body, forcing his hands agonizingly into the small of his back—I can see his pain in his eyes. It’s beautiful. It makes me want to hurt him more.

I slowly pump my engorged shaft deep within the youth’s quivering, traumatized rectum. The meat responds to each thrust with faint gasp, almost a moan, his pain-wracked face taut with panic. I can feel his warm, firm body twist and press against me as he seeks to escape from the penetrating agony of my huge cock reaming into his guts.

“Yeah, you worthless little fuck, ya like that, dontcha? Goddam faggot cunt, you love that massive fuckin’ tool plugging your hole, huh? Is that it? You like the way it hurts, fuckmeat? Fuckin’-A, yeah, dude, the way you’re ridin’ my cock, you gotta love it. And I know it hurts, bitch, cause I’m makin’ it hurt. So don’t worry, you worthless pain pig, I’m about to amp up the agony—fuck, meat, I’m gonna hurt you so motherfuckin’ good!”

I grab a fistful of the boy’s hair and pull him down to the floor, forcing my full weight on top of him. As he whines and struggles under me, I slip my other hand down his side, the knife gripped tightly in my fingers. I raise my head up slightly, clenching my fist and pulling up on his hair painfully. His lashes part and I meet the plea in those smoky blue eyes with a cold stare.

I sneer slightly just before I insert the knife into the kid’s flank, slowly inching the sharp, serrated blade into his liver.

The kid’s mouth opens. His face draws back into a rictus of pain; his slim, lithe body contracts around me, his tight legs gripping me tightly in a desperate reflex to trauma. I shudder and gasp as his asshole clamps down on my dick. Fuck, this one’s good. This one is responsive.

This ain’t just meat, this is steak. I need to savor it.

I let go of the knife, leaving it buried up to the hilt in the boy’s heaving, sweating flesh. I don’t want him to bleed out. I let him know.

“Goddam, you’re good fuckin’ meat. Lucky motherfuckin’ cunt, I ain’t gonna kill ya right away–gotta say, bitch, you really know how to enjoy the pain. Holy fuck, if this is getting’ ya off this much, I can’t wait to see what kinda reaction I’ll get from the nightmarish agony I got planned…”

The teen’s face is white but for the huge dark rings of shock forming around his eyes—on his left, it merges with the swollen, bruised skin from his earlier tenderizing. Even a good cut of meat needs some preparation. But he’s hitting the peak of the pain reaction; his body is relaxing, he’s gasping for air in a high-pitched squeal, his teen fuckhole is loosening on my cock.

As I lean over and spit into the kid’s face, his look of terrified incomprehension is beautiful. I’m about to recall him into the moment…

Grasping the knife tightly, I begin twisting it inside the youth. The razor-sharp steel slices effortlessly through his liver and spleen. I jerk the hilt brutally upwards, slashing into the teen’s kidney. The serrated edge comes in handy when I encounter some gristle. I look deep into the meat’s eyes as I saw through the obstruction.

He reacts exactly as I’d hoped, black sneakers kicking against my back as his legs grip me again, tightly, desperately, his firm chest slipping over mine on a sheen of cold, agonized sweat leaking out of his abused body. He tightens up even on the inside and I feel my cock swell as if his rectum was forming a vacuum.

“God-fuckin-dam, you motherfuckin’ pain whore! See, I knew it. Ya like that, yeah? How ya like this, meat—I’m about to waste your useless ass. You are about to die in screaming agony and they’re gonna find your body rotting in a ditch full of my cum. Ya like that, ya fuckin’ stoned-ass faggot pig? If not, ya got ten seconds to learn to love it, cocksucker, cause it’s time to die…

…eventually.”

It’s my favorite way of offing my meat with a knife, because I can take my time. The pain the meat endures is excruciating if I do it slowly, and they remain aware of what’s happening for a long time.

I like that.

I swiftly jerk the knife out of the kid’s side, managing to elicit another physical contraction. I have to hold him and shudder for a moment; fuck, that sensation around my shaft… Ok, ok, I need to maintain control. The best part is yet to come—so to speak. I hold up the blade, watching it glisten in the dim overhead light, before I point the razor-sharp, crimson-stained tip at just about the punk’s Adam’s apple.

Rotating the knife ninety degrees and holding it parallel to his throat, I shove the tip up under his jaw, near the rear of the mouth. As the tip penetrates the skin, releasing a thin trail of blood from the wound, the meat begins the greatest sexual performance of his wasted young life.

Again, he clamps his hard, sweaty legs around me in an unconscious, reflexive embrace. I can feel the heels of his sneakers digging into my thrusting ass as I continue to pump my thick, engorged shaft into the dying teen’s fuckhole. He jerks and thrashes in mortal pain and fear as I slowly insert my steel shaft into his head.

As the blade moves upward, I make sure to describe what’s going on to the meat; I want him to enjoy this as much as I do.

“Ok, cunt, can ya feel that? That’s my knife slicing up through the base of yer tongue. Y’know, like ya can get sliced tongue at the deli? Think of it like that. But I’m doing it to your tongue while my dick is up yer ass. That get ya off, ya pain pig? No? Fuck, ya coulda fooled me, the way your tight fuckin’ teen ass is suckin’ down my cock as I off ya. So let’s kick it up some, huh?

He’s thrashing violently, his face purple with strain and twisted by pain into an almost unrecognizable mask. But I can still see the occasional pimple on his teen face, the golden tuft of fur on his chin, now stained with the blood leaking out his gasping mouth—he’s still my stoned teen meat, writhing against me as I put his flesh to its highest and best use…

I tighten my large bicep, shoving the blade further into the kid’s head as I shove my massive rod deeper into his helpless guts.

“Hell yeah, dude, I bet your tongue is almost cut in half by now and the tip of my blade is goin’ up through the roof of your mouth. Fuck, bitch, that’s gotta fuckin’ hurt—good thing you’re a worthless pain pig, huh?”

Suddenly, the smooth progress of my knife is interrupted. The vicious tip of the blade jams into something solid. I make sure the meat knows that I won’t let it stop me.

“Damn, looks like I hit somethin’—must be the bottom of your sinuses. Goddam, you lucky fucking piece of shit fuckmeat, you get to hear my blade getting’ rammed through the bottom of your skull while you get to feel my dick shred your punk fuckhole.”

His eyes are huge and frantic. I’m not sure how much comprehension remains behind those amazing blue-gray orbs, now bloodshot and staring fixedly. But I haven’t touched his brain yet, so there’s nothing neurologically wrong. The pain, the knife will cut through his terror. He’ll be there for the money shot.

It begins as I press down on the boy’s head with one hand while I drive the knife upwards with the other. As the cunt struggles in my hands, I’m rewarded with the deeply erotic crunch of steel penetrating bone while my dick simultaneously penetrates the meat’s quivering teen rectum.

“What’s it feel like, motherfucker? What’s it feel like to have a serrated blade rammed up though your sinuses? What’s it feel like to ride both my cock and my blade down into agonizing death? I know you’re still in there, you fucking homo piece of shit, I know you can still hear me the same way you can still feel my dick up your ass.”

I smile sweetly into the punk’s crazed, horrified face, releasing the top of his head to stoke his strained, tear-streaked face before resuming my grip.

Everyone is gonna think you wanted this, you fuckin’ cunt. They’re gonna think you wanted to get fucked to death—and you do, dontcha? This is what ya really want. So just enjoy it. I’m gonna fuck yer ass with my dick and yer brain with my blade; I’m gonna use your body to get off and I’m gonna throw your cum-filled body into the gutter like a used rubber, and ain’t no one gonna give a shit. So get ready to spunk and die, you faggot; get ready to have your fuckin’ pain pig death left in the street for everyone to see.”

I slide my knife up slowly, lovingly, though the teen’s sinuses, holding him down and maintaining control as his body convulses rhythmically, pumping his sphincter along my shaft as it clenches my rod like a cock ring. He rocks violently side to side, his eyes staring deeply into mine, conveying his complete surrender to the overwhelming assault on his body…

And then I hit the point I’ve been seeking—the point at which the teen is truly made into meat, the point of the brain that makes the punk blow his load despite the pain and fear and trauma.

I have no idea if he even knows what’s happening at this point. His eyes roll back in his head as his legs dig into me painfully, convulsing to the point of pulling me in and driving my swollen purple shaft even deeper into the meat’s torn and damaged rectum. As the faggot fuckmeat jerks under me, I feel a hot blast of fluid across my flat, hairy abdomen.

The cunt is shooting uncontrollably, just like I promised. I always make sure the meat blows a load. This one’s no different. His long thick glistening cock stands up and presses firmly into my belly so I can feel his shaft swell and spunk as he dies.

I ream his ass and his skull, one with a hot, hard shaft—the other with a cold, hard shaft. I pump his guts full of spunk as the dying meat drains his semen over my furry belly. Gasping deeply, I hold the youth tight, stroking and kissing the shuddering corpse tenderly.

I slowly regain my composure. Pulling my still-oozing tool out of the body’s torn colon, I wipe my dick (and my knife) off with what’s left of the meat’s jeans. I get dressed and, shutting off the light, slip past the curtain into the driver’s seat. I slowly ease out of the yard, glad there’s enough of a moon that I don’t have to turn on the lights.

I keep them off till I reach a main road. Long before then, though, I pull over to a storm culvert. There’s been a lot of rain lately, so it’s pretty full.

I drag the meat out of the van. Hands still bound behind its back, its black sneakers drag over the pavement as I lift it over the railing and dump it into the runoff. I quickly toss the cunt’s shirt and jeans in behind the meat and take off.